Bad Mutha Fudruckers

I suck, but I'm back!

2009-04-22T16:23:00.001-04:00

Hey, I know I suck big time. No argument here. But I'm moving my suckiness over to wordpress, so...come check some Bad Mutha Fudruckers out at our new home:

http://badmuthafudruckers.wordpress.com

Hope to see you there!

Who doesn't close the door in public restrooms?

2009-01-28T11:30:00.008-05:00

Ok, enough about Curly Sue (although she is going strong, hanging in there for day 3). Let's talk about some Important Stuff. Like Stuff that Happens in Public Restrooms.

I never use the handicapped stall. I just can't. Even after downing a bucket of Wild Cherry Pepsi at a movie, when I really have to pee and there is a long line and it is the only stall available, I won't use it. What if a legitimately handicapped person comes in right as I'm, um, getting down to business? If I caused someone in a wheelchair to poop their pants because my able-bodied ass was occupying the handicapped stall, the guilt would follow me around my entire life and I wouldn't even try to argue with St. Peter when he shook his head and turned me away from the Pearly Gates.

There is a lady in my building who always uses the handicapped stall and never shuts the door. You heard that right. She leave the door unlatched. Now, this lady has a handicapped parking tag and sometimes uses a cane, so I am not begrudging her the use of the handicapped stall. But I've noticed that her office door is sometimes closed, so she can't have a disability that would keep her from latching the stall.

Don't get me wrong; I never close the bathroom door at home and only rarely do I close it at Steve's (unless I have to see a man about a horse or taking care of some lady business). When I walk in and see the door unlatched and see her feet under the door (of course I look), I start to question myself. Am I being a prude? I mean, it's not like anyone is going to see anything or even walk past. It's the last stall. But then I snap back to reality. No, it's normal to latch the door in public restrooms, just like courtesy flushes or awkward attempts at conversation. As I occupy my stall, I start thinking that maybe it's a dare. She's daring me to fling open the door. Or maybe she's really germophobic, and the merits of latching the door do not outweigh the sheer amount of pathogens that touching the latch would potentially transfer to her hands.

By the time I leave the bathroom, in my mind she has become this passive-aggressive lunatic who goes back to her office to don tissue-box slippers.

She does have that handicapped placard...

Meet...Curly Sue

2009-01-27T09:36:00.007-05:00

I got one of my co-workers to help me take a picture of Curly Sue* for your viewing pleasure. Gaze upon her beauty!

[Pay no attention to my bitten nails or unplucked eyebrows. Trust me. It's better this way.]

So...jealous much? I would be, too. Isn't she a thing of beauty? It's too bad I can't type and twirl her around my finger, because looking at this picture is seriously making me want to bust out some pomade and style Curly Sue. Right. Now.

I know that some of you requested a Paint portrait, but really, I tried and I couldn't do her justice.

As a Double Bonus Happiness, I got my birthday present** from my sister Anne and her fiance, Justin, today. I know! Curly Sue and birthday happiness? How lucky can a girl get? I'll probably go home to dog poop all over the house today, just to balance everything out.

It's ok, though, because Anne (who reads this blog sometimes) sent me Cake Decorating for Dummies and the Scrabble Word Building Book. I wish it were the weekend so I could spend all day making Scrabble tile cakes and brushing Curly Sue.

----------------------------------------------------
*Thanks to Dr. Zibbs for giving me the idea to name her.
**My birthday is on Sunday. Happy 27th to me!

None of this would apply if I could grow a decent handlebar moustache

2009-01-26T14:32:00.005-05:00

About every 3 or 4 months, I grow an extra-long eyebrow hair in my right eyebrow. It goes pretty much unnoticed by everyone except for me, as it is always very blonde and very thin. I'll just get a feeling one day, and reach up to check, and yes! It's back!

I love this eyebrow hair, and become obsessed with it as it grows. Every so often my hand will sneak up to stroke it, much like I imagine I'd stroke a beard or a moustache if I had one. I sit in front of the mirror and pull it gently to prove to myself it's still there and attached.

I made the mistake of pointing it out to my roommates once, who immediately offered to pluck it for me. When I refused, they moved from offering help to threatening to pluck it as I slept. I don't have to tell you it was a sleepless night.

I got that special feeling today at lunch as I ate my apple and peanut M&M's (I ate my pb&j at 10:00 because I skipped breakfast). I reached up, hoping for the best but prepared for the worst. My fingers slid across my eyebrow until I was able to detect and wrap my index finger around the renegade hair.

Long, boring budget meeting? Stressfull phone call with my grandmother? It is the MAD Cat to my Dr. Claw. Seriously, this thing is almost ~~better than~~ as good as a cold beer.

Seriously?

2009-01-23T10:57:00.003-05:00

So apparently my blog is down due to some false spamming issues? Fuck. Wordpress is looking good right now...

At least it's Friday.

I threaten my dogs with knives

2009-01-23T09:48:00.007-05:00

I went home yesterday on my lunch break to put some scalloped potatoes in the crock pot so they'd be ready for dinner. The dogs were thrilled; I'm pretty sure they usually spend the day licking each others' genitals.

Thanks for sharing my shame, mother.

Anytime, baby Ernie.

Even though Dexter has a bum knee and sometimes refuses to get off of the couch for a morning potty break, that little bastard is an escape artist. In his younger days he'd climb over 6 foot fences. So when the dogs are in the backyard, I keep a close eye on them. Every so often I stuck my head out of the back door.

"Is everyone still behaving?"

It wasn't until about the 3rd or 4th time that I realized I still had my huge potato-slicing knife in hand, giving my neighbors yet another reason to doubt my sanity.

TMI Thursday (and an apology)

2009-01-22T08:16:00.005-05:00

Not to worry; I've already slapped myself across the face repeatedly for being an asshole blogger. Work has been crazy, what with the short week (made even shorter by a SNOW DAY on Tuesday and a 2 hour delay on Wednesday--I love working for the county!). I spent the weekend making delicious and not-too-horrible looking red velvet cakes and picking dog hair out of marshmallow fondant (it was more fun that it sounds). Also, I played around on Steve's drums a little bit.

He broke the news that I couldn't be the singer in his fake band because he's heard me at karaoke and he doesn't think I'm good enough. Bastard.

Moving on. It is once again time for TMI Thursday, and although I've talked about pubic hair, rats, and not getting hit on while smelling of baby pee, I have yet to talk about what I think about while sitting on the toilet. Allow me to enlighten you.

Last night I was sitting on the toilet, smack dab in the middle of a satisfying post-work #1, and staring at the empty roll of toilet paper.

Dammit.

Some, when faced with this dilemma, would rail against a spouse or a roommate. As I live alone, I know that I am solely responsible for the predicament I find myself in. I considered my options.

Option 1: Attempt to 'shake' or 'drip' dry. This seems to work well for guys, but I have never found much success with this method.

Option 2: Waddle, pants bunched around my ankles, to the hall closet to retrieve another roll. This would seem the likeliest course of action, were it not for the cold temperature of the house, the possibility of dripping urine on my pants, and the probability of a cold/wet dog nose making contact with my bare bum.

Option 3: Use a washcloth. Convenient, and, in my desperate reasoning, environmentally friendly. I equate it to the use of cloth diapers.

Ultimately, I went with Option 3. I figured that, with judicious use, I could get 4 to 8 uses (not including number two, obviously--I'm not an animal) out of a single washcloth, folded into quarters, before said washcloth would need to be laundered. This would save both toilet paper and water, as I do subscribe to the "if it's yellow, let it mellow" school of thought. I can't really let more than 2 yellows mellow, if you know what I mean, without running the risk of clogging my finicky toilet.

I'm not quite ready to make the permanent switch; I still have some wrinkles to iron out, including:

coming up with a system for keeping track of which quarters of the cloth have been used
making the distinction between bathing and wiping washcloths
tactfully warning guests away from washcloths currently 'in use;' and last but not least
keeping Ernie from consuming 'in use' washcloths

I'll keep you posted on my progress.

This is what I imagine goes on while I'm at work, except probably with more tongue kissing.

2009-01-16T08:40:00.006-05:00

Happy Friday!

TMI Thursday

2009-01-15T09:37:00.012-05:00

Ok, so maybe this isn't really TMI, but it is an embarrassing story none the less.

My sister, aunt, 18 month old niece, and myself were in hour 14 of our 15 hour road trip from North Carolina to Michigan. We were making our way through downtown Detroit when we heard a grinding noise coming from underneath the car. My aunt pulled off on the next exit, and stopped at the first gas station we pass to inquire about the nearest service station. While my aunt was in the gas station, a man approached the Dumpster we were parked next to and urinated on it. My sister and I crouched behind my niece's car seat in the hopes that the black half of her racial heritage would be enough to give us some street cred.

We were pointed in the direction of, I kid you not, the scariest auto repair shop you have ever seen in your entire life. From the oil-spattered walls to the tiny rottweiler puppy tied to a cinder block chewing on a styrofoam take-out tray, everything about that place gave me the willies. I accompanied my aunt to the bathroom, which was no more than a filthy commode stuck in an alcove with half of a shower curtain for a door. I decided I'd hold it a couple more hours, but my aunt was in dire straits so I gamely shielded her as well as I could as she did her best in the cesspool.

We reluctantly left the safety of my aunt's car and crowded into the tiny office as the mechanics took a look at the car. There are two chairs in the front office, but no one sat in them. I was holding my niece when I suddenly felt a warm patch spread slowly across my hip. Her diaper had leaked. After retrieving her diaper bag from the car, we got her in a fresh diaper but I was stuck wearing my urine-soaked road-trip jammies.

That place may have been filthy, but they were quick. I don't even remember what was wrong with the car, but they had us out of there in 90 minutes. As we filed out to the car, one of the younger mechanics grabbed my arm.

Him: "Hey, can I get your phone number?"

Are you kidding me? I thought. My hair hasn't been washed in 2 days and I reek of baby pee.

Me: "Um, well I live in North Carolina, so I don't really think this would work out."

He looked at me with an exasperated look on his face.

Him: "No, I need your aunt's phone number. In case we need to get in touch with her about her car."

I blushed wildly and ducked quickly into the car.

Me: "Aunt Mary, they need your phone number."

In which I dream about calling the maintenance man, or Julie Gets a Microwave

2009-01-14T00:24:00.004-05:00

Sitting at a friend's house eating pancakes and sausage for dinner recently, I announced that I thought Julie had gotten a microwave for Christmas, but I wasn't sure and maybe I just dreamed that. I'm not 100% sure what prompted me to make this announcement; Julie wasn't even present at dinner. Perhaps it was the wish that I had taken the time to microwave the syrup before I poured it over my pancakes, or maybe it was a random brain synapse firing. I guess it doesn't really matter.

What matters is that I have boring dreams. I have dreams about regular, everyday things. For example, about 5 years ago when I shared an apartment with 2 girlfriends, I was supposed to call the front office to get someone to come out and look at the fan in our laundry room which wasn't working. A couple days pass and one of my roommates, A, asked me if I had called, to which I replied that I hadn't called because our other roomate, D, had called. A few more days pass and no one comes to look at our fan. Why? Because D hadn't called; I had just dreamed that she did. WTF? Get an imagination, you freak.

I've been reading Cake Wrecks for a couple of months now, and I've started having dreams about decorating cakes and I now believe I have the skills to appear on an episode of Ace of Cakes. How hard could it be to sculpt the Backyardigans out of fondant? Never having baked or decorated a cake in my life without the aid of my pals Duncan Hines or Betty Crocker, I bragged to my sister Lauren about my ~~imaginary~~ new-found skill with a pastry bag. She, in turn, told my sister Anne, who is getting married this May, about my new calling in life.

Anne and her fiance have very set ideas about how they want their wedding to go down, and are both working at least 2 jobs to finance it. I'm extremely proud of her for being so responsible, even if her job as a manager at a children's clothing store did prompt her to send me the following email:

To: badmuthafudrucker@gmail.com

From: mailto:babysister@ican

Re: Retail rules

Rule Number 1:
I AM NOT A BABYSITTER --
in fact you probably don'twant to just let your kids run around wild in hopes that I'll watch them. I'd probably let them put a dirty penny in their mouth and watch as you are mortified because you weren't watching them and they decided to suck on a penny - why not? It's shiny, they have nothing better to do. I know those evil glances you're giving as you yell at your child and force them to spit out their shiny metal snack are meant for me, but unfortunatly for you, you cannot place the blame on me in front of the 3 other sets of parents who are looking at you as though you were reading Britany Spears' memoirs of motherhood (hopefully she doesn't really write memoirs of her experience as a mother, it may cause further and irreversible damange to her boys as they grow old enough and some stranger teaches them how to read).

Besides, if you leave your kids to me, how am I supposed to pull all the sizes you want to try on in all the colors and outfits you came in here for in the first place?

Oh and if you ask me to put in a movie for them to watch I will probably be more interested
in that (no matter how many times I've seen Ella Enchanted in the past week) than catering to your every need.

well i hope you enjoy this and it makes you pee your pants a little bit.

-------------------------------------------------

Ah, the pleasures of working in retail.

Anyway, a recent phone call between myself and Anne goes down like this:

Me: Hey Anne!

Her: Hey. Lauren said you wanted to make my wedding cake?

Me: Well, what I said was that I have mad dream skills at decorating cakes.
Her: So you'll make my wedding cake? We just want something simple. All white. With roses.

Me: What if it comes out looking like vomit on a plate? But it still tastes good? Will you hate me forever?

Her: Probably. We want red velvet. I'll send you a picture. [click] dial tone

Me: Wait...

So she wants this:

[image credit: http://www.uniquecake.co.uk/]

But I'm afraid she'll get this:

[image credit: http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com]

Looks delicious. Anyone have a good Red Velvet cake recipe?

Seriously, it's not that hard.

2009-01-13T08:37:00.013-05:00

As Nancy's birthday lunch comes to a close...

...Dummy McStupidFace makes a fatal mistake.

The bill arrives...

...and the shit hits the fan.

Things get really ugly, really quickly.

The moral of this story? Always, always ask for separate checks.

...and bring some small bills, mother fuckers.

I should be so lucky

2009-01-12T10:46:00.002-05:00

image credit: xkcd comics

I'm sensing a pattern. I cannot fucking win. I'm beginning to hate Scrabble, and myself. This weekend Steve spanked me again at Scrabble. I tried all day not to play, and when I lost I was very, very close to pitching a hissy fit. I was also very, very close to cheating.

"Q-U-O-N-E. QUONE. You know, when a patient gets out of hand, you have to quone'em. We need a medical dictionary!"

Granted, I am showing improvement. I only gave him 2 Triple Word Score spaces, instead of setting him up for all 8, and I only lost by about 40 points. But when did I become such a poor loser?

I was never really big into sports in elementary or high school. First out in dodge ball in 4th grade PE? Oh well, I'll just sit over here and read "Incident at Hawk's Hill" again.

On the rare occasion when I wasn't riding the bench on my high school's varsity softball team, my sister and my best friend would eat my sunflower seeds and drink my Gatorade Ice, filling it back up with cloudy water from the team's water cooler, then laughing at me when I came back into the dugout. The three of us were also admonished by out coach for an inappropriate display of mirth on the bus ride home from a particularly bad loss. Apparently the appropriate attitude was one of despair and humiliation. We didn't get the memo. It was Friday, and we had a date with a handle of Aristocrat vodka and a henna home tattoo kit.

I hope our Technology department isn't monitoring my internet usage too closely today, lest they see a spike in Google searches for 'scrabble+tips for winning' and 'how to lose graciously.'

You win this time, venison.

2009-01-09T09:23:00.007-05:00

Even though nobody asked what Harry Potter yarn looks like yesterday, I know you were all wondering. Here you go, cry babies:

Happy now? Animal abuse really brings my family together. We also bond over red wine and guacamole, but that is a story for another time.

On to some interesting stuff. Wednesday night I spent the night with my BFF, since her boyfriend was out of town and I am a good friend. Also she mentioned in passing that she was going to put a venison loin in the crock pot. Done and done. I'm there.

BFF and her boyfriend are really fun people, and do interesting things like spear fishing and free-diving. Their freezer is always stocked with fish they've speared while diving at a local ship wreck or shrimp they netted from the waterway in their backyard. I do interesting things like eat their fish and shrimp. BFF works in the land management industry and is really conscious of where her food comes from, growing most of her own vegetables, only eating meat if she's killed it herself or knows the hunter personally,* and guilting me into using Blackle instead of Google. I'm making her sound weird and sanctimonious, but seriously she is awesome.

Long story short, the venison and accompanying homemade mac and cheese was delicious. BFF packed some leftovers for me to take for lunch, and I spent the first half of the day bragging to anyone who would listen about how my lunch was going to fucking rock. Unfortunately for me (and my co-workers), I spent the second half of the day camped pretty close to the office restroom as the wild game raced through me. Everyone at work was complaining about how cold it was yesterday, but my intestinal turmoil had my internal thermostat kicked pretty high and I was flushed and sweaty all day. New Year's resolution to lose a few pounds? I'll go ahead and scratch that off of my list.

Confession time: ok, it wasn't the venison. It was the mac and cheese. Damn you, lactose intolerance! I'm still in denial.

-------------------------------------------------
*After a few drinks a couple of weeks back, BFF confessed to me that she had really been craving bacon lately, and did I want to take up archery with her so we could go bow-hunting for wild boar? I took archery as my PE requirement in college, so of course I said yes. We haven't actually gone any farther with the planning than that initial conversation, but I'll be sure to keep you posted. Though I will most likely fall asleep in the tree blind on the day of the hunt, waking only after someone else makes a kill and throwing up on myself while I watch as the kill is butchered.

Harry Potter sock yarn? Yes, I am serious.

2009-01-08T10:05:00.008-05:00

Today is a sad day. Has anyone has been holding off on presenting me with that bag full of cash so I can quit my job and spend all day knitting socks out of Harry Potter yarn and baking delicious treats for the dogs? Because today would be the perfect day to stop procrastinating and hand over that loot. Seriously. I am thisclose to punching a few people in the mouth and then hanging out in the intersection by the McDonald's with the other homeless panhandlers. I bet I could make a couple bucks today before my tears of frustration with life in general stopped being cute and started turning ugly.

Ok, internet, I am going to go breathe into a paper bag and try not to karate-chop any of my co-workers in the throat. SERENITY NOW!

Trish gave me an award on Monday, probably before she read my depressing post about the passing of Pat Hingle in which I make fun of Mr. Rogers. Thanks Trish!

So I'm going to quickly pass this along to a couple of blogs I've recently started reading that restore my hope that humanity is not a complete and utter pile of steaming dog diarrhea:

Doug at To Blog Or... because I nearly shit my pants reading about how he did shit his.

Lisa at Lemon Gloria because she is not afraid to write about how her husband voiced his fears that the cable technician would urinate on their rug during a service call.

Just a Girl because her chihuahua chewed up her butt plug and my sister's chihuahua chewed up my very first vibrator. This means we are blog twins.

Alexa at Cleveland's a Plum because she pierced her ear to win a scavenger hunt and didn't even end up winning. But you are still a winner, Alexa.

and last but not least,

Dr. Zibbs at That Blue Yak because he gave me nightmares about turkey vultures and it is his birthday. Happy Birthday Dr. Zibbs!

Also Kate, Lump, and Ashley all took me up on my offer to interview them, so check their blogs out in a few days for their answers to such thoughtful and insightful questions as:

Who would win in a fight between a unicorn and Dateline NBC’s Chris Hansen?
(Keep in mind: the unicorn is abnormally strong, has a razor-sharp horn, and can fly; Chris Hansen has the power to read minds and also has a pet phoenix whose tears can heal any wound.) Explain.

and

You find an old oil lamp at a pawn shop marked $20; you haggle the
proprietor down to $10 and buy it. After you bring it home and rub it (just for
shits and giggles), a genie comes out. He tells you he is the pantry genie, and
can bewitch your pantry to always be fully stocked, but only with the
ingredients for one dish. Which one dish do you tell him to stock it up with?
What are the ingredients? Can I have that lamp when you are done with it?

I burned my bangs off with a curling iron. True.

2009-01-06T09:20:00.018-05:00

So Andy over at Film, Tape, and Steel Strings offered to ~~humor~~ interview me (ok, really I volunteered because I'm still not in the I-can-totally-write-a-funny-blog-post-no-problem mode). Here are the 5 questions he asked me with my answers. Now I'm supposed to send 5 new questions to anyone else who's interested; just leave me a comment letting me know you'd like to be ~~interrogated~~ interviewed and I'll come up with 5 brilliant and insightful questions and email them to you. It's possible that I've gotten some of this stuff wrong so check out Andy's blog for the real rules.

1) If you have one physical possession that means more to you than all others, what is it?

Growing up as a military brat, my family moved a lot and I ending up ~~losing~~ having to part with a lot of stuff, so I view most of my possessions as replaceable. I won't count the animals, even though legally they are possessions, but if the house was on fire they would probably beat me out of the door (or in Hemo's case, push me down on her way out a la George Costanza). If my house was on fire and I could only grab one thing, I'd probably grab my electric skillet, because that thing makes some AWESOME hash browns and I even made soup in it once. True, I could buy another one at Wal*Mart for $19.99, but what if Wal*Mart burned down, too? I'd be S.O.L.

2)What is an embarrassing High School moment that you had to live through?

In high school, I played clarinet in the marching band, and no, that's not the embarrassing moment. My sophomore year, we marched in the Junior Orange Bowl Parade in Florida. I was so pumped. We were going to DisneyWorld, too. Double pumped. I was getting ready at 4am to get on the bus, going through my usual routine of curling my bangs in the infamous claw-over-the-forehead style, when the stench of burning hair assaulted my nose. All 20 strands of hair that made up my bangs had seperated themselves from my head and were seared onto the curling iron. I lost my shit. Crying, screaming, peeking at my crispy baby bangs through red, puffy eyes, I jammed a Mickey Mouse ball cap on my head and boarded the bus with my bandmates. My bangs have never been the same.

3) Who is your "favorite" blogger/blog and why?

My favorite blogger is Dingo over at As I Was Saying. She was one of the first commentors on my blog, and she has become my blog hero. She's had like a million different jobs, from stewardess to attorney to college professor, and has the baddest Photoshop skills you've ever seen. Plus she has a baby pigeon named McJagger (well, maybe he's not a baby anymore, or even a boy, and maybe he no longer resides on her porch or enjoys Dingo Girl's protection, but still, McJAGGER? Come on! That's golden.) Also I want her on my side during the zombie apocalypse, because she's devoted some serious time to planning for and surviving said apocalypse.

4) Your favorite nickname someone else has given you*.

Well, it's definitely not Wine Eye. My sisters called me Sarah Jeanie Weenie when we were little and I hated that, too. My senior year of high school, though, I developed an insane crush on my AP American History teacher, Mr. Tucker. Man, my knees still get weak thinking about him. I had (and filmed, the shame!) a fake wedding in which my Little Foot stuffed dinosaur stood in for Mr. Tucker at the altar. I was convinced that when I saw him at the Homecoming football game the year after I graduated, he'd offer to take me for a ride on his motorcycle, and then propose marriage. I guess I don't need to tell you what didn't happen that night. Sigh.

What we were talking about? Oh yeah, nicknames. There were only 6 people in my history class, and when we were learning about the Battle of Saratoga, Mr. Tucker started calling me Saratoga Jean (my middle name is Jean, if you haven't picked that up already) and it is now my email address, my screen name, and my first and only tattoo. Ok, one of those is a lie. But Mr. Tucker, if you are out there...I love you. Still. Call me.

5) If you had to move to a major city somewhere in the US, what would it be
and why?

I'd move to Honolulu, because I couldn't stand to be anywhere colder than where I am right now. We lived in Hawai'i for 6 years when I was in elementary school, and if money wasn't a consideration I'd moved back in a heart beat. The ocean is beautiful, the water is clear and warm all year long, the food is an absolutely delicious blend of Polynesian and Asian influences, the culture is fascinating, and even on your worst day, you are still in Hawai'i. The best corn on the cob and the best shave ice I've ever eaten were from roadside vendors on the way home from the North Shore. Man, I need to start saving my pennies.

So, who's next?
------------------------------------------------------
*I don't believe in giving yourself a nickname. That's why I slapped several people in the face at a bar who were calling my friend Ashley "A-bomb." It's not a real nickname, guys, she gave it to herself. Stop calling her that. Call her "Smashley." It's funnier.

I know I shouldn't have slapped the innocents who didn't know any better. But I couldn't help myself. My rage blinded me.

86 Pat Hingle*

2009-01-06T08:09:00.004-05:00

This morning I saw "Hats off to Pat Hingle" displayed on the marquee of a local diner. For the next 20 minutes of my drive to work, I wondered who Pat Hingle was, and what he/she had done to merit such public recognition. Had he coached his son's pee wee football team to the pee wee Superbowl equivalent? Had she been the top producing real estate agent at the local Century 21 franchise? Had he (be still my beating heart) finally conquered the 8 lb. hamburger at the afore mentioned diner?

A little wiki-research revealed that Pat Hingle had played Comissioner Gordon in several Batman movies. Oh, that Pat Hingle. And that he had survived a near-fatal fall 54 feet down an elevator shaft. Wow.

It turns out that Pat Hingle died yesterday in Carolina Beach, NC from leukemia. So hats off to Pat Hingle, even though to my knowledge he never did conquer that monster hamburger.

----------------------------------------------------------
*The title comes from a horrible joke told by a co-worker when I was waiting tables. The kitchen would regularly communicate which items we were out off by writing "86 (whatever we were out of)" on a marker board in the kitchen. When one of the servers heard about Mr. Rogers' death, he wrote added 'Mr. Rogers' to the list. Even though I was sad about his passing, I couldn't help laughing. I will have a hard time explaining this to Mr. Rogers if I make it to Heaven and meet him there.

It's just like riding a bike, right? Right?!?

2009-01-05T12:27:00.009-05:00

So I haven't blogged for a while (you didn't notice? oh well) which has created a backlog of post ideas that have leaked into my real life conversations. Prefacing a story with, "just a warning, this might be TMI," doesn't really work out well when you end up telling your mom how you know it's gross but you still sit bare-assed on the toilet seat at bars because the 'squat-and-pee' maneuver it too difficult to pull off after a few drinks, and no one really gets crabs from public toilets anyway, right?

Also I said 'fuck' in front of my mom and my 5 year old niece, but thankfully my family is too shocked to really address this issue, so after I weathered the 25-30 seconds of awkward silence I was home free.

So here's a quick recap of things that have happened to me in the past 2 weeks or so:

I cut off ~~all~~ most of my hair. I love it.

I went sledding with my niece in Michigan. Being in the snow for less than 45 minutes rocks. After that...not so much.

Steve got drums. :(

That is all for today. Yay 2009!

*[Updated to add]: Why did no one tell me I spelled niece wrong?

6 saltines in 60 seconds, you say?

2008-12-23T08:41:00.008-05:00

I've mentioned before that I am fascinated by competitive eating. Last night I was over at Julie's for Friends' Christmas, which was a ton of fun and I scored some awesome gifts. Like this scarf (thanks, Kristin!):

But this post is not about how awesome my new scarf is, or how delicious the crab legs, shrimp, and oysters were, or even how delicious my Sailor Sarahs are. This post is about slamming saltines.

C challenged K to eat 6 saltines in 60 seconds. Sounds easy, right? I mean, I regularly hoover a whole sleeve in what feels like no time at all. The rules are simple: 6 saltines, chewed and swallowed, with nothing to drink, in 1 minute.

K stepped up to the plate. Around cracker 4, though, it became evident that she wasn't going to make it.

It was sad, my friends. I offered to coach K in the fine art of competitive eating, so that next year she can redeem her good name.

I'm not-so-secretly wondering if I am up to the challenge. I'll get back to you on that one...

Wine Eye?!? What happened to Notorious?

2008-12-22T08:55:00.007-05:00

I was riding with J and Julie to a friend's wedding, when I over heard this half of a phone conversation between J and The Groom:

J: Yeah, we're almost there...I'm with Julie and Sarah.
The Groom: (inaudible)
J: Hahaha, yeah, Wine Eye Sarah.

Me: What? Who's Wine Eye Sarah?

WTF? I'd never heard that particular nickname. I interrogated J and Julie, but neither one of them was copping to any knowledge of the origins of the nickname. I barely made it through the ceremony before rushing The Groom and demanding an explanation. I walked away in a huff after he spilled the beans.

The backstory: I used to date The Groom's best friend a couple of years ago. We met at a local bar that had karaoke and 1/2 price bottles of wine every Sunday. Needless to say, I was there just about every Sunday.

The beans: Unbeknownst to me, drinking an entire bottle of wine all by myself causes one of my eyes to, well, there's no delicate way to say this, drift? Go lazy? How fucking embarassing. Karaoke Boyfriend and his boys were laughing at my lazy drunk eye and calling me Wine Eye. Granted, these boys gave everyone a nickname, but I thought mine was Notorious, since that was what they called me to my face and my signature karaoke song was (and continues to be) Notorious by Duran Duran.

I wanted to punch someone, but since Karaoke Boyfriend was safely in Colorado and The Groom was, well, The Groom, I had to laugh it off and pretend I didn't care. But I did, internet. I did.

But then I reviewed pictures from the wedding after-party and decided the nickname was warranted, after all. Still, that fucking sucks.

Ernie's imitation of Wine Eye Sarah.

Not funny, Ernie.

Anyway, if you've noticed a decline in pictures of the dogs over the past couple of weeks (come one, I know there's at least one of you), it's because Wine Eye struck again and I lost my camera. HOWEVER, Steve rocks and got me a brand spanking new camera for Christmas.

Really?

2008-12-19T10:00:00.007-05:00

Bumper stick seen on the back of a Kia Rio this morning: "Sorry, Officer, I thought you wanted to race."

First of all, I don't think it's a smart idea to taunt the police. There ain't no talking your way out of a speeding ticket with that baby plastered to your bumper. Don't even think about crying or showing a little skin, either. You take that ticket. Take it like a man.

Secondly, and more importantly...a Kia Rio? I don't drive a flashy car (Honda Civic gas sipper, woot woot!), but I'm pretty sure a Kia Rio isn't going to beat anyone in a race. Maybe not even those scooters I routinely get stuck behind doing 35, maybe 40 mph on the streets of Wilmington.

In conclusion, sir, I think you would be better served by a different bumper sticker. Might I suggest the following:

JEI Thursday: RATS...some facts

2008-12-18T08:25:00.010-05:00

I was wracking my brains this morning for a good TMI post, but I decided to go with JEI (Just Enough Information) Thursday.

I was at our county's government office yesterday, trying to get some permits approved for new after school programs. Have I mentioned I work for my county's school system? Of course, I end up waiting in 3 different lines to talk to 5 different people, eventually leaving with 2 additional forms that need to be filled out and approved before the county can grant itself permission to run after school care programs in buildings not only built by the county itself and run by county employees, but previously inspected by county agencies. Ah, bureaucracy, how I love you.

Anyway, I got to leave work early and I picked up some sweet pamphlets while I was waiting in the Environmental Health Department line.

So, without further ado, I bring you RATS...Some Facts.

And inside...(emphasis my own)

Click to view larger image

Text: The average rat lives about one year. During this time a female rat may have seven litters, each with 6-12 young.
Conclusion: Rats live hard and die young. Also, rats are sluts.
Text: Each time a rat leaves the nest, it travels the same path. This path is called a "runway."
Conclusion: Tyra Banks is a rat.
Text: Rats commonly live near people and are not scared by the odor of humans.
Conclusion: Rats do not shop at Wal*Mart or use public transportation, because if they did they would be scared by the odor of humans. Unwashed humans, at least.
Text: The rat most commonly found in homes in North Carolina is the Norway rat (Rattus norvegicus).
Conclusion: We need to build a fence between the USA and Norway, to keep out illegal immigrants.
Text: When food is available, rats will make themselves at home.
Conclusion: My stepbrothers are rats.
Text: Where large numbers of rats are present in a neighborhood, a community effort is needed to control the rat problem.
Conclusion: You better make nice with your neighbors, because when the rat apocalypse occurs, you are going to need back-up.

I totally would (with bonus Delicious Deliciousness)

2008-12-17T09:01:00.012-05:00

So yesterday Nilsa over at SoMi declared it a De-Lurking Day. As I have a problem keeping my mouth shut, the holiday didn't really apply to me, but she did say that regular commenters could ask her a question. Any question. This is dangerous territory my friends.

Maxie's been doing a "Would you Wednesday" for a while now, and it's a game my friends and I play all. the. time. Usually it's along the lines of, "What if you met [insert name of current celebrity obsession], and the two of you fell in love, but he would only ever have sex with you doggie style? He would never want to look at your face when you were having sex?" Which typically leads to a 30 minute conversation in which we hammer out rules/details (could I look back at him? could we do it in front of a mirror? is it because he was molested as a child?) before finally deciding on a scenario all parties are satisfied with. Sometimes it leads to one party calling another party a psycho pervert, but it's all part of the game.

Anyway...so my question to Nilsa was:

Would you agree to wear a bag over your head (with eye holes cut out, but no mouth hole) every time you left your house in exchange for an enormous sum of money (enough to keep your immediate family financially comfortable without working for the rest of your lives)?

And you couldn't tell anyone (other than your significant other) why you were wearing the bag.

But last night Dexter had a bad case of Old Man Bladder, so after I had let him out a couple of times, I couldn't get back to sleep. I played the "What if?" game by myself. I thought up some new rules.

You could take the bag off to drive, because driving with a bag over your head is just dangerous.
You could not take the bag off to fly on an airplane. You'd probably look like a terrorist threat, so you'd either have to learn how to fly yourself (like driving, you could remove the bag while actually piloting the airplane) or resign yourself to only road trips for the rest of your life.
You could not embellish the bag, other than to cut the two eye holes. No drawing a face or bedazzling the bag.

I'm sure there were more but now I can't remember them.

So anyway, would you? And all you lurkers out there, would you, too? I want to know!

**Bonus Delicious Deliciousness**

Steve hasn't been feeling very well lately, and when he confessed to me on Monday that he was feeling "poopey," I promised to make him some chicken soup. How nice of me, right?

Well, it would be nice if I knew how to make soup. Which I don't. Really, I don't even like soup. But after the words were out of my mouth, I had to make some shit happen. We can't have little Stevie feeling poopey and disappointed, can we?*

Lucky for me, I found this recipe at epicurious.com and tweaked it a bit. Tortilla Soup with Chicken and Lime? Sounds like a winner!

And it was, internet friends, it was. Here's the recipe:

Ingredients
1 white onion (chopped)
1 jalapeno (de-seeded and chopped)
1 zucchini (chopped)
1 tbsp minced garlic

1 box chicken broth (I got the big one, I think it's like 36 oz.)
1 can corn
1 can black beans
1 can Rotel diced tomatoes (any variety would work, but I used "with lime and cilantro")
1 bay leaf
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon dried crushed red pepper (more or less to taste)
2 green onions (chopped)
a handful of cilantro (chopped)
1/2 cup lime juice
2 cups Mexican cheese blend
1 ready made rotisserie chicken from the supermarket, about 4 lbs. (or you could poach your own***)

4 5-6 inch diameter tortillas (corn or flour)
no-stick cooking spray (I used Pam)

Preparation

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Stack up tortillas; cut in half. Cut each half into strips. Spread strips on a non-stick baking sheet and spray with cooking spray. Bake until light golden (about 12-15 minutes). Set aside to cool.

Saute jalapeno, zucchini, and 1/2 of the chopped white onion (reserving half to add just before serving) in garlic in the bottom of a large sauce pan (or you can use a good sized electric skillet, like I did). When onions and garlic are just turning soft, add broth, tomatoes, corn, black beans, bay leaf, cumin, and red pepper; bring to boil. Reduce heat; simmer 5 minutes.

While broth is simmering, remove the meat from the rotisserie chicken and shred. Set aside.

Before adding chicken to the broth, remove half of the solids from the broth and blend in a blender or food processor. This makes the soup less watery and more like a stew. Add blended solids back to the broth. Add chicken; allow to cook for about 5 more minutes. Stir in green onions, reserved 1/2 white onion, cilantro, and lime juice. Season with salt and pepper.

Ladle soup into bowls. Sprinkle with Mexican cheese blend and tortilla strips and serve.

---------------------------------
*No, we cannot.**
**I apologize for the footnotes. I don't know what's up with me.
***Show off.

Sorry, internets, I've been an asshole blogger.

2008-12-16T08:18:00.008-05:00

Posting on Monday?** Who does that? Certainly not any cool people...

I have a serious case of holiday induced I-don't-feel-like-doing-shit-itis. Actually, I do feel like doing something. Namely, sitting on my couch, reading Breaking Dawn and sipping on some dark hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps. Unfortunately, that is not a paying gig and if I want to continue to heat the house and keep dog food in Ernie and Dex's bowls, I'm going to have to do some actual work around here.*

This morning I got stuck behind a school bus. Crappy, I know, but it was made even more crappy because not one but two creepy kids stared at me the entire time. We're talking 5 miles with at least 7 stop lights. At first I pretended I didn't see them, but I kept making accidental eye contact when I'd check to see if they were still looking at me. Then I pretended to be singing along to the radio, but my car stereo was stolen and I haven't replaced it yet. I haven't been able to get Britney Spears out of my head since this weekend, and I felt a little weird mouthing "wo-man-izer wo-man wo-man-izer you're a wo-man-izer" to elementary school kids. At the next stoplight I pretended to be engrossed in the Christmas card my friend Julie had sent me.

Oh, Julie, how nice of you to include Hemo in the card, even though Hemo is a bitch and doesn't celebrate Christmas or any other holiday other than Breakfast and Dinner.

Even though the card was glittery, it wasn't enough to hold my attention for much more than 20 seconds at a time.

Why am I so desperate to put on a show for these kids? Jeez, shouldn't they be picking their noses and wiping boogers on each other? Speaking of picking noses...

*slaps hand away from nose*

No, Sarah, don't set a bad example.

Oh, Swiss Miss and peppermint schnapps, knowing you are waiting for me at the end of the day is hopefully enough to keep me from pulling a George Costanza and napping under my desk for most of today...
------------------------------------------------------
*Not here here, because unfortunately blogging is not a paying gig. It is cheaper than therapy and it makes me sound busy at work, though.
**Proofreading? The cool kids aren't doing this, either, are they? I mean, I know this one isn't.

Ladies' Night

2008-12-12T11:16:00.009-05:00

Things I put in my mouth last night (PG-13 edition):

-74 kabillion wasabi-rice crackers
-2 tentative bites of Harris Teeter ham-type spread
-2 beer bongs (how old am I again?)
-1 bison burger
-generous portion of coarse-ground mustard*
-4 sauteed onion slices*
-macaroni and cheese*
-macaroni and cheese
-8 zillion tater tots
-regular mustard**
-1 1/2 glasses wine
-1 1/2 shots strawberry vodka with Squirt chaser

Shows I watched last night:

-3/4 episode My Name is Earl (during which decided I don't like watching episodes where Earl and Joy are married, because it makes me sad)
-1/2 episode of Kath & Kim (during which I decided I really need to get some cool pajamas)
-1 full episode of The Office (during which I talked to D's mom, explained that she was drunk but that she wanted Horton Hears a Whoo! on DVD for Christmas)

Topics discussed:

-Whether or not Julie's neighbors are retarded
-Who should play Jacob in the next Twilight movie
-Who we would have cast as Rosalie***
-D's ~~rape fantasy~~ non-consensual-while-still-remaining-non-violent sex fantasy
-My penchant for chubby guys
-Whether or not 'bison' is spanish for 'delicious beefy goodness'****

Miscellaneous figures:

-number of nuts I found in Julie's chair from last week when I ate a drumstick while watching Katt Williams' stand up comedy: 1*****
-number of Katt Williams' quotes: 24 (approximate)
-number of beer bongs D took: 3
-number of beer bongs Julie spit on Kristen: 1/2

That is all, folks. It's Friday, and I am lazy.
------------------------------------------------
*denotes items I put on my bison burger
**denotes an item I put on my tater tots
***Scarlett Johanssen
****No, but I had Julie fooled.
*****Bonus: yes, I did eat it.

TMI Thursday

2008-12-11T08:33:00.004-05:00

Much like this blogger who's BlogSecret secret ended up on Alexa's blog, I was unaware of all my grooming options 'down there' until my sophomore year of college. My roommate, D, was a die-hard waxer; we're talking eyebrows, upper lip, arm pits, stomach--the whole shebang. It seemed a little overkill to me, especially when she'd come back, bleeding from the armpits. Sure, they were hair-free and surprisingly smooth, but it didn't seem like a fair trade.

We were living at the beach, though, and I was a bit envious that she never had to bother with the quick 'touch ups' my other roommate and I scrambled to attend to before putting on our bikinis.

After much coaxing, I finally broke down and made an appointment with my roommate and her waxer, who I'll call Helga, not because that is her name but because typing it makes me giggle.

The day of reckoning finally arrived; D and I had back-to-back appointments with Helga. We got to the spa a couple of minutes early. I was nervously pretending to read magazines as D attempted to reassure me that it's not that bad, I won't have to come back for another 45 days, blah blah blah. Finally Helga came out, a short, willowy woman with a faint Eastern European accent and led us back into a room.

It was a small room, painted a pale peach color, with a candle burning in one corner and soft celtic music playing. In the middle of the room was a padded table, much like you'd find at a doctors office, with a line of butcher paper rolled down the middle. To one side of the table was a small tray with what looked like a mini-rice cooker sitting on top of it, surrounded by wooden popsicle sticks, cotton balls, and various bottles of lotions and ointments. Helga asked which of us was going first, and I pointed to D.

D and I had decided that I would stay in the room for her appointment. Apparently this is fairly common because there was a chair already set up in the corner. Unfortunately (or fortunately, I guess) the table and the chair were situated so as to give me a front row seat to the action taking place on the small strip of butcher paper.

Helga asked D to take off as much clothes as she felt comfortable with, and I was surprised to see D strip down, but leave her underwear on. D isn't really a modest person, and this small, surprising bit of modesty made her look vulnerable. My stomach started doing somersaults*.

Helga started with D's upper lip, then moved on to her armpits. Helga kept up a light banter the whole time, talking about her pet parrot and how her volleyball team did in their tournament last weekend. Tears were pooling in D's eyes as the hair was ripped from her armpits. I must have looked worried.

"Don't worry, Sarah, my armpits are the worst part," she told me.

Finally, D's va-jay-jay was the only area left. Helga asked if D wanted a simple bikini wax, or a Brazilian wax. D laughed and agreed to go whole hog--the Brazilian.

Helga took out what looked like a ponytail elastic and knotted D's underwear in such a way as to give her pretty much full access to the area in question. D flinched and whimpered as Helga relentlessly pulled strip after wax-and-pube-covered strip of linen from her womanly parts. Helga left no stone unturned in her quest for pubic hair. I couldn't look away. I honestly had no idea how ugly a vagina was until I watched Helga hunt down every last hair D had from her belly button to her anus. I was having some serious second thoughts. Legs were lifted, folds of skin were parted; it was like some weird ballet gone horribly, horribly wrong as Helga would tap D's leg to position her so as to best access D's nether regions.

Then, it was my turn. D hopped down from the table and wiped the tears from her eyes. "It's really not so bad," she offered half-heartedly as Helga changed the butcher paper.

I decided to make my humiliation complete, and stripped completely from the waist down. No weird ponytail elastic thong for me! I'd witnessed the thoroughness of Helga's search for pubes and figured modesty had no place in this room.

Keep in mind, I had no idea what to expect coming in to this appointment. From the day D made the appointment, I'd completely abandoned any attempts at trimming or landscaping my lady parts. I was laid out on the table, exposed to the world, looking like a 70's porn star.

Helga's eyes scanned the area in question, then flicked quickly up to my face. She pulled out a tiny pair of scissors.

"I'll just cut some of this back before we start," she breezed.

I could have died of humiliation. I thought I was doing the right thing, thinking it would be easier if there were more hair to take hold of, so to speak.

"I should have told you to trim, Sarah, I'm sorry," D said quietly. My face was so red. I felt like yelling out, Wedding Singer-style, "Information that you could have brought to my attention YESTERDAY!"

Instead, I lay there, wallowing in my humiliation as Helga snipped at my pubes. This was a bad idea, I was thinking.

Finally, it was time for the wax. I agreed to the Brazilian, thinking there was no point in half-assing it at this point. As Helga spread on the first application of the warm wax, I thought to myself that it felt oddly pleasant. Like a warm bath, but just for my privates. Then she applied the linen strip and I steeled myself for the pain.

"So, do you have a boyfriend?" she asked as she rubbed the linen into the wax.

"Um, no," I replied. No one to admire your handiwork, I thought to myself.

She quickly pulled the strip off, and then looked at me with horror.

"What? What happened?" I asked.

"I'm so sorry," she stammered, "I didn't mean to take so much off at once." I was aghast. I had hardly felt anything.

"Damn, Sarah, it's like your hair just jumped off of your body!" D exclaimed.

With the knowledge that the worst was over and this wasn't actually going to hurt, I could focus more intently on the humiliation I was enduring. Helga found creases and crevices that even I wasn't aware of. I should have felt violated, but really I felt like I was molesting her. When she motioned for me to lift my legs up to give her a clear shot at my hiney, I prayed desperately that I wouldn't fart. D was still in shock at how easily my hair had separated itself from my body, and offered nothing by way of distraction.

Finally, it was over, and I was $65 poorer, plus the $20 tip I felt obligated to leave Helga. I got home and studied my naked woman parts in the mirror. Rather than feeling sexy, I felt dirty. I looked like I had a 10 year old's vagina.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

*I spelled this word right on the FIRST TRY! Go me...

I am the anti-Rockwell

2008-12-09T11:19:00.001-05:00

For some reason, I think I am invisible when I'm in the car. I have no problems picking my nose and flicking boogers out of the window, or going for a quick crotch scratch. I don't know why; my windows aren't tinted, and my car sits pretty much as low to the ground as you can get and still clear speed bumps.

Come to think of it, I think I am invisible much of the time. Stain on my shirt? Who's looking close enough to notice? Wacked-out hair? Well, I'm just going to Food Lion, nobody really cares. The flip side of this is that I look at people non-stop. Not that I'm necessarily judging people, but I look at and take note of food stains, signs of poor hygiene, unfortunate clothing choices, etc. Let me reiterate--I am not judging. I'm wondering about the thought process behind strangers' appearances. I can understand that comfort might prompt that lady to wear sweat pants to pick up a gallon of milk, but I'm baffled by the high heels. I want to know the thought process.

I mean, I have ~~an excuse~~ a story for the dirt on my pants. Ernie jumped on me when I was on my way out of the door. I don't know about you, but I don't budget an extra 25 minutes to find a backup outfit in the morning. Once the clothes are ironed, on the body, and have passed the mirror test, I'm committed. I can't go through the whole process of imagining an outfit, combing my ~~dirty clothes hamper~~ closet for the necessary articles, assembling the appropriate undergarments, and ironing twice in one morning, simply because I drooled some toothpaste onto my sweater. Who's going to notice, anyway?

ALSO, LBluca77 is continueing the Pay It Forward Contest, and the last day to enter is TOMORROW. Go check it out and leave a comment to be entered.

I am a chubby chaser, and I hate ranch dressing

2008-12-08T08:10:00.017-05:00

Seriously, I love the expression on the old guy's face in this picture.

It's no secret among my circle of friends that I am a chubby chaser. With very few exceptions (including my current beau), I have always been attracted to ~~slightly~~ overweight guys. I'm not sure why; maybe it's because they tend to be funny and I like funny guys. Maybe it's because they are good insulation on a cold night. Or maybe it's because if we ever crashed our plane in the Andes Mountains, they would provide more caloric sustenance.

Yesterday I stumbled upon Man vs. Food, starring Adam Richman. The premise of the show is that this guy goes around the country and takes on local restaurants' eating challenges. After I saw him successfully eat a 72 oz. steak, plus a salad, baked potato, and a yeast roll, in 32 minutes, I was smitten.

**[UPDATE] Adam also ate a shrimp cocktail with this meal. Oh. My. Gosh.**

**[CONTINUED UPDATE] I was wondering what that thing was between the salad and the roll. I guess that's a shrimp cocktail. With at least 4 shrimp. This man is a GOD.**

Half-way into the show, however, I had to break up with Adam. Why, you might ask, when you two are so obviously a match made in heaven? Well, internet friends, Mr. Richman put ranch on his fried chicken. True, it was at the urging of the proprietor of Gus' Fried Chicken, but still. I hate ranch.

My hate affair with ranch started when I was about 11 years old. I was babysitting my 3 younger sisters, when one of them opened up the fridge and out fell a glass, family-sized bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing. It broke all over the floor, spreading under the cabinets and to almost every corner of our little kitchen. I don't know if you've ever tried it, but it is near to impossible to clean up a sea of ranch dressing. After breathing in the ranch fumes for what felt like 6 hours, I was done with ranch. The thought of it made me gag.

Fast forward about 9 years. I'm in college, waiting tables at a rib joint in North Carolina. Every time I turned around, a table was asking for ranch. Their requests blended together until it sounded like the bleating of so many redneck sheep. "Ranch! Ranch!"

*shudder*

My friend decided that ranch is what runs in the devil's veins. My fellow servers and I would complain when we got sat a bunch of likely ranch dressing lovers.

"Dammit, I just got sat an 8 top of ranch eaters."

or

"Fucking ranch eaters--they didn't even leave me 10%."

I'd try to get my petty revenge on these tables. Our menu said that we had a 'low calorie' ranch, which we were always out of, and I loved to bring ramekin after ramekin of the regular 'high fucking calorie' version to ladies at lunch who requested the 'low cal' version.

"Are you sure this is low-cal? It tastes so good!"
"Of course, ma'am. We carry only Ken's Steakhouse Dressings, that's probably why you can't taste the difference."
"Well, do you mind bringing me some extra ranch, then? Since it's low-cal..."

Hahaha...joke's on you, biotch. I'm not even mad you left me a $0.75 tip on your $9 salad.

The ~~ranch dressing~~ icing on the cake was when one mother, in between puffs on her More cigarette, told me her son needed extra ranch dressing on his salad. But of course, ma'am.

"Really, he just wants ranch soup with some lettuce floating in it," she laughs.

*sound of a record scratching*

What?

So, I'm sorry, Adam Richman. Things would never work out between us. You are funny, and charming, and I'd never have to worry about forgetting my to-go box at restaurants, if I could just overlook this one flaw. You are so close to being the perfect man.

Also you have a master's degree from Yale's School of Drama and I think you might be gay.

Is it cliche to say that men are incapable of putting the seat down?

2008-12-05T08:43:00.012-05:00

I grew up with three sisters. When I moved out and went to college, I went to a women's college. When I got my first apartment, I lived with 2 other girls. I have never (knock on wood) fallen into the toilet seat because a man has left the seat up. Dating Steve, though, has taught me to never take for granted that the toilet seat is as I left it. Up, down--you better check that shit unless you want to end up dunking your ass in some toilet water at 2 in the morning.

The other night I woke up, having to pee. I stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the light. As I approached the toilet, I saw that the seat was down.

"Aw," I thought. "Steve put the seat down. He really is such a thoughtful guy."

I got closer, thinking nice thoughts about Steve, but I soon noticed that something was amiss. The seat was sparkling like Edward in the sunshine. As this is not typical of Steve's toilet, I investigated further.

I think you know where I'm going with this. Steve had, in fact, not put the seat down, or up for that matter, but in a sleepy stupor had peed all over the seat. Thank goodness I turned the light on and noticed the sprinkle. Or I would have had to suffocate him in his sleep.

Birds are the devil

2008-12-04T08:32:00.007-05:00

It's no secret that I hate birds. Those bitches are mean and disgusting. Just the other week I in my car, reading the last of When You Are Engulfed in Flames, when a flock of mockingbirds swarmed my car. Mostly they just pooped all over it, but one of those fuckers tried to get in through the window I'd left cracked. He kept trying to squeeze his diseased-ridden body through the 1 inch opening, and when he finally realized he wasn't going to make it in, he hurled himself repeatedly again the window before attacking his reflection in my side-view mirror. I was so shocked by the initial onslaught I spilled my delicious apple cider in my lap. After the birds left, I sat in my car, shaking, and looked around the parking lot to see if anyone else had witnessed my "When Animals Attack" experience. Seriously, I think the kamikaze one had rabies.

Dr. Zibbs from That Blue Yak posted a truly horrifying story yesterday about some hillbilly who passed out in the desert and woke up as a TURKEY BUZZARD landed on his chest. Dr. Zibbs touted it as a "funny story" but it was actually a terrifying story. After I read it I threw up on my desk. Well, maybe I didn't actually throw up, but I was seriously disturbed. I tried to shake it off and leave a funny comment, pretending that I wasn't way freaked out, but all I could think about was a huge-ass vulture sitting on my chest, getting ready to use his sharp beak to peck out my eyes AND EAT THEM. I'm getting goose bumps just thinking about it.

Even if I didn't like to eat poultry I still would do it, just to show those fuckers who's the boss.

I'm sorry I said 'fuckers' twice. Well, now three times. See what birds do to me?

Fact or Fiction Wednesday

2008-12-03T09:35:00.005-05:00

Item 1:

Statement: I am capable of dressing myself.

FICTION
I am capable of dressing myself exactly 33% of the time. The 8 hours when I am asleep, I am dressed totally appropriately. The other 16 hours, well, not so much. I see myself as a sassy career girl who looks trendy and put together. Unfortunately the mirror sees me as a slightly disheveled career girl with dragging hems and a serious handicap in the 'putting makeup on yourself' department. Working with post-menopausal ladies and tech geeks hasn't really helped me, either. If I took a cue from my office mates I'd be wearing turtlenecks and sweaters a la Kristy or short sleeve button down shirts a la Dilbert. Having a roommate, albeit temporarily, has made me re-evaluate my status as an adult. Since when does gray not match with khaki? Who made that rule? 26 year olds are not allowed to wear leggings? Fight the machine!

Perhaps I should stick with the triangle dresses.

Item 2:

Statement: I pack Dora the Explorer fruit snacks in my lunch.

FACT
They do not make fruit snacks for grown-ups. Except for organic fruit roll-ups, but they cost 75 cents a piece and do not fit into my food budget. Plus they are called "Fruit Leather" and that does not sound as appealing as "Dora Saves the Snow Princess Assorted Fruit Flavored Snacks."

Item 3:

Statement: I walked past a Chinese food restaurant yesterday and didn't (even for one second) think about stopping in and getting an eggroll.

FACT
I am as shocked as you are, internet. I haven't had a craving for Chinese food since October 18, 2008, when I stumbled out of Beer Fest and ate 3 eggrolls and a dozen crab rangoons, in addition to disgusting amounts of beef with broccoli and cashew chicken. Insult to injury? I made the rookie mistake of eating an eggroll on the way home, burning my mouth and seriously diminishing my ability to taste the rest of the meal.
Don't fret, Dragon Garden. I can't quit you. I'll be back...just not quite yet.

Item 4:

Statement: I am just reading my book on my lunch break until someone comes along to talk to me about something more exciting, like the new Board of Education members.

FICTION
I am reading my book on my lunch break because I finally wrestled New Moon away from my friend and I honestly can't wait to find out how Jacob turns into a werewolf. Don't get me wrong, I'm not proud of this. I don't even know why I'm telling you this. Perhaps it's so you'll shun me and I can read my tween romances in peace.

Item 4:

Statement: I don't know how to spell 'receive.'

FACT
I get the 'i before e' part, but the 'except after c' never looks right. I always spell it 'recieve,' which looks much better, right? Oh well, at least I'm not still pulling a Ramona Quimby and spelling relief 'r-o-l-a-i-d-s.'

Item 5:

Statement: Ernie is one handsome Mutha Fudrucker.

FACT

The one where vampires cause me to break into my own car with a screwdriver and an American flag

2008-12-02T08:40:00.005-05:00

I am an idiot.

I left work during my lunch break yesterday with two goals in mind: mail my rent check and buy a copy of New Moon. I was unsuccessful in both endeavors.

I went to the Wal*Mart up the road where I thought I would have the best luck buying both the book and some stamps. I'd looked at both Barnes and Noble and Books-a-Million, but every 13 year old girl, her mother, her maiden aunt, and her 20-something sister has been buying up these books so they are pretty scarce. As I grabbed my purse, I glanced at my copy of Twilight sitting on the passenger seat. Visions of Edward-crazed tweens played out in my head, and I decided to lock the doors.

Inside Wal*Mart--no New Moon. Dammit. Defeated, I bought some stamps from the vending machine and headed back to the car. Where I had unfortunately locked the doors with the keys still in the ignition. Double dammit. Spare key? Nope. With the whole of Wal*Mart at my disposal, I figured I could find something to help me break into my own car.

Trolling the aisles, I settled on a flat head screwdriver and a 3 ft. dowel, which unfortunately had an American flag stapled to it. Back at the car, I managed to wedge my door open enough to stick the dowel into the car and push the 'unlock' button on the door handle. After, of course, I had ripped the flag off while cursing the entire Cullen clan and my own stupidity.

It's not everyday you see someone desecrating the American flag and cursing Stephenie Meyers in the Wal*Mart parking lot.

On an up note, writing this post reminded me to mail my rent check.

And the winner is...

2008-12-01T08:58:00.004-05:00

...LBluca77!

Yay for you! Email me at badmuthafudrucker [at] gmail [dot] com to let me know what size t-shirt you'd like and where you'd like me to send it. BTW, if you haven't read LBluca77's blog, you are missing out. I've never laughed so hard about someone's food addiction.

Thanks again to Marie, BrazenBareToe, and BohoPoetGirl for pimping the contest; I've got something special for you lovely ladies if you'll send me an email to let me know where to send it.

In other news...

BlogSecret repercussions continue to be felt here at Bad Mutha Fudrucker Central. For the back story, read here and here. S0, Potential read Anonymous' letter and left a comment saying "there is undeniable potential." Anonymous is taking Potential out to dinner when he gets back into town in two weeks, so hopefully he'll give us an update after their dinner.
It's official--I am way out of shape. I played Wii Fit at my dad's on Thanksgiving, and after 15 minutes of Wii hula-hooping, my abs were killing me and my legs felt like jelly. The next day I felt like I got pummelled by Hans and Franz.
I suck at Scrabble. Or Steve is really good. I'm not sure which one. He definitely knows his way around the rules, though. Current standings: Steve-3, Me-1. It is a sad day.
Marie's pumpkin bread is idiot-proof. I am a terrible baker; I use 1 measuring cup for both my wet and dry ingredients, I do not allow my eggs to come to room temperature before adding them, I don't own a mixer and have to mix everything by hand, the list goes on. Despite these handicaps, I managed to turn out 2 loaves of pumpkin bread and 24 mini muffins. Win!
I've seen Twilight. Twice. One of my girlfriends had a dream in which Edward had beautiful, glowing testicles. Another friend dreamt that he wrote her research paper. I haven't had my Edward dream yet.

Peace out, Ninjas

2008-11-26T09:24:00.009-05:00

I'm leaving work early today and I won't be back until Monday. Which means I'll be doing a lot of this:

and a lot of this:

while the dogs do a lot of this:

and this:

and this:

but not a lot of blogging.

Monday the winner of the Pay it Forward contest will be announced! There is still time to enter!

Fact or Fiction Tuesday

2008-11-25T08:40:00.010-05:00

Item 1:

Statement: Because you caught me updating my Netflix queue at work, I have enough time on my hands to help you organize your Mortar, Concrete, and Grout Test Reports.
FICTION
Sure, I have a little time on my hands. I'm efficient. That doesn't mean I have time to do your job, too. Just to clear something up--when I helped you out a month ago clear off the landfill you call a desk, I wasn't setting up a standing date. Stop hinting that you could really use my organizational skills again. Buying me lunch isn't going to entice me back into the no man's land that is your office. It smells like onions and feet. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a couple of hundred unread blog posts to attend to in my Google Reader. Good day, sir.

Item 2:

Statement: I enjoy coming home to find 3 or 4 pairs of underwear scattered about the house, sans crotch.

FACT
Obviously. Otherwise why would I leave my underwear on the very top of my tall dresser, easily accessible to any passing pitbull with a vertical leap of 6' or more? Clearly I am too good to wear any single pair of panties more than once.

Item 3:

Statement: Traffic signs displaying 'SPEED LIMIT 45' should be interpreted to mean 'drive as slow as you'd like, preferably 30 mph.'

FICTION
Surprising, I know. Even though one of my headlights burned out last week so I am forced to drive with my brights on to avoid a ticket until I can convince Steve to help me replace the bulb, know that I would be driving with my brights on behind you even if it this wasn't the case. Because I'd like to be home at 5:45 on a Friday evening, not crawling behind your slow ass, watching as you gab on the phone and toss your cigarette butts out of the window. You probably can't tell because my bright lights are in your rear view mirror, but I'm giving you the finger.

Item 4:

Statement: I would kick ass at Wheel of Fortune.

FACT

POLYNESIAN RESTAURANT. Got it.
PLUS I would not be a greedy spinner, risking bankrupting myself while trying to up my winnings for the round. I would be content win a couple thousand each round, and really clean up in the 'toss up' rounds. I wouldn't scream or lose my cool when I landed on a big money space, either. I'd calmly collect my cardboard pie piece which represented a trip to New Mexico, and laugh all the way to the bonus round. Which I would win. Then I would give Pat Sajak a high-five and smile at Vanna as she opened the door to the brand new Chevy convertible I had just won. I'd pretend I was driving and honk the horn as the program faded to commercial.

Item 5:

Statement: You can win cool stuff just by commenting on this blog.

FACT

Click here for details.

Who writes checks anymore, anyway?

2008-11-24T09:57:00.015-05:00

One of my best friends is staying with me for a month until she leaves for France, so I've been trying to keep the house in a semi-orderly state. Lucky for me I've found a couple of cleaning ladies who don't mind working for cheap.

The younger one was pretty gung-ho...

...while the older one was a bit condescending.

The owner was a real bitch, though.

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Anywhoo, last Friday while I was busy giving her an award for her so-hilarious-I-almost-peed-my-pants-that-one-time blog, Dolce was busy giving me one. Awesome! Validation, how I crave thee...

Now I'm supposed to give it to 5 other Uber Amazing bloggers. You should, like, totally be reading these blogs if you aren't already. So here they are, in a particular order which I will not divulge:

Kate at New Life in South Dakota because I think it is Uber Amazing how she's taken control of her life, and I always find her posts inspiring. PLUS she has a cooking blog which is new but still ROCKS.

Dingo at As I was Saying because of her Uber Amazing photoshop skillz. Yes, with a Z because they are that amazing.

Crissy at Crissy's Page because it is the first blog I read in the morning to reward myself for making it to work yet another day. Also she is an Uber Amazing Hot Mommy Blogger.

Lisa at Lemon Gloria; a blog I've just started reading but is hilarious and Uber Amazing.

Ben at No Ordinary Rollercoaster because his lunch box rivals mine for it's Uber Amazing-ness. Also I hope he will take me on a date.

P.S. Don't forget about the contest! You don't even have to have a blog (or a pit bull) to win!

BlogSecret pt. II

2008-11-21T15:48:00.003-05:00

So...remember the BlogSecret post I hosted where Anonymous wrote a beautiful letter to a girl I'm calling Potential? Remember how we have been on pins and needles waiting to hear if Anonymous would take our collective advice and share the letter with Potential?

Well, Anonymous just sent Potential a birthday card with the address of the post.

Fingers crossed! Keep us updated, Anonymous!

P.S. Don't forget about the contest.

I know it's just a t-shirt and a couple of coozies, but we are in an Economic Crisis!

2008-11-21T08:29:00.013-05:00

You know that scene in Erin Brokovich where her biker boyfriend presents Julia Roberts with a pair of earrings after giving her a speech about how he had been planning on giving them to her the next time she said 'thank you' or did something nice? And how that never happened so he was just going to give them to her now, as he broke up with her?

Well, I told myself last night that I'd do a bloggy give away as soon as I won something. Lo and behold, Lump gave me an award! Sweet. Happy Friday to me!

To prevent my Fabulous Crown from being snatched from my head as I cry and run stumbling from the catwalk, scalp bleeding and mascara running, I am to list 5 of my addictions, and pass it along to 5 other fabulous bloggers.

My addictions:

1. Tetris - Steve has two bathrooms in his house; one is the regular, public bathroom and the other one I call the 'poopy bathroom' in my head because it is in the master bedroom and this is where I go when I need to see a man about a horse. In addition to the Maxim magazines, there is a Game Boy. I have sat there, pants around my ankles, for upwards of 45 minutes playing Tetris and trying to beat his high score. I have been as of yet unsuccessful, but maybe I'll make some chili this weekend and get in some quality time with the Game Boy.

2. Serial novels - I cannot pass up a book series. Sometimes this is good; the Dune series, the Chronicles of Narnia, A Series of Unfortunate Events, Harry Potter, etc. Some times this is not so good. See: Clan of the Cave Bear. The first book was ~~good~~ alright, but the series quickly devolves into soft core housewife porn. I couldn't stop, though. I slogged through to the end of the series, however, and towards the end it seemed like every other page was a mammoth on human rape scene. When I finally finished, I felt dirty.

3. Socks - I need to have socks on ALL THE TIME. Even if I kick them off during the night, I have a hard time falling asleep without socks on. These little piggies get cold.

4. Karaoke - Karaoke is like a drug to me. Once I sing one song, I want need to sing another, and another, and another, until I'm signing up for songs under various pseudonyms in a desperate attempt to trick the DJ into letting me sing more songs, boasting proudly that "karaoke is 2% singing ability and 98% song choice," and loudly promising to vomit on the next person who sings "Strawberry Wine."

5. Biting my fingernails - Hi, my name is Sarah and I am a nail biter. It's disgusting, I know, but I CAN'T STOP.

I'm passing this along to the following bloggers:

Katie @ save the pitbull, save the world because I am in awe of all the fabulous work she's done with her adorable pitties, Luce and Mushroom.

LBluca77 for her fabulous bacon eating abilities.

BrazenBareToe for pointing me in the direction of the ~~torture~~ fabulous experience that is NaNoWriMo.

Dolce @ La Dolce Vita for her fabulous ability to make my co-workers doubt my sanity as I laugh out loud not-so-quietly at my desk.

Finally, to Nilsa @ SoMi for organizing and hosting the fabulous BlogSecret.

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Ok, so the first Bad Mutha Fudruckers' Pay it Forward Give Away.

The prizes: A t-shirt and two coozies from Wilmington's Most Awesome Dex And Ernie Friendly Bar, The Barbary Coast.

*actual t-shirt/coozy design may vary slightly, as I just made these up from memory in MS Paint today*

How to win: Leave a comment starting today (11/21) and ending Sunday, November 30 to be entered in the contest. One entry for each comment (multiple comments=multiple entries, up to 2 per post). If you have a blog and pimp this contest on it, you can earn yourself another entry (leave me a comment letting me know you are a pimp). Feel free to use this badge:

The winner will be determined by a random number generator and announced Monday, December 1st. The winner is expected to host their own Pay It Forward Give Away, with their own prizes and rules, thus Paying It Forward.

Questions? No? Good.

If you have a question and are too embarassed to ask in front of the entire class, you can email a Mutha Fudrucker at badmuthafudrucker [at] gmail [dot] com.

Deal or No Deal

2008-11-20T09:46:00.006-05:00

I was in Food Lion last night picking up some necessities like Miller Lite and breath freshening dog treats while talking to my sister on the phone and wandering aimlessly through the aisles when I came upon a display of DVDs.

Closer review warranted this photo:

Your eyes are not deceiving you. Both Scooby Doo meets Batman and Stranger than Fiction are being offered for the low low price of just $9.99.

I just bought Superbad and The Darjeeling Limited from Netflix for $5.99 each. But Scooby Doo meets Batman?!? Interesting premise, I'll have to admit.

I am full of questions: Does Velma pull Batman's mask off after they track him back to the Batcave? Did they follow the tire marks of phosphorescent bat guano left by the Batmobile? Would Bruce Wayne still be free to stalk the evil-doers of Gotham if it weren't for those meddling kids? If I can't come up with suitable answers I may have to spend the $10 just to slake my curiosity.

Stranger than Fiction for $9.99, though; that is a pretty sweet deal.

I'm addicted to losing

2008-11-19T13:25:00.003-05:00

Want to win some free stuff? Check out BrazenBareToe's give away contest. I'm thinking about starting a Pay it Forward give away, myself. Although other than a Barbary Coast t-shirt and coozy, I'm not sure what I would throw together. Thoughts?

My life as a drinking game

2008-11-19T10:12:00.005-05:00

When I was a kid, I desperately wanted a dog (shocking, no?). My parents didn't cave until I was 13, when they bought my sisters and I the craziest Dalmatian you've ever met; however that is a story for another time.

For years I tried to trick them into letting me get a pet. When kittens were born (every 4 months) under the dumpster behind our elementary school, I'd bring the mewling, flea-covered kittens to my mom's office and dare her to look into their crusty little eyes and deny them a home. Every science fair I begged my mom to let me get mice to train in a maze. Actually, if we're being truthful here, first I asked for rats, thinking she'd never go for that and then I could maybe bargain her down to mice.

Thus began my unhealthy obsession with lab mice and rats. Reading "Flowers for Algernon" only intensified my longing; of course my little mouse would be a genius. I re-read the description of the mouse habitat built by the Grandmother in Roald Dahl's "The Witches" and fantasized about the tunnels and mazes I'd make so my mice minions could follow me around the house, safely out of the grasp of my little sisters.

One of my favorite movies as a kid was "The Secret of NIMH." I still have a VHS copy that I watch sometimes as I fall asleep. I popped it in to watch again last night. As I lay there, waiting for my bed to warm up and fighting the dogs for blankets, I found myself devising a drinking game to go along with the movie.

Take a drink every time Mrs. Brisby is referred to as "Mrs. Jonathan Brisby."

Take a drink every time Jeremy the Crow sneezes.

Take a drink every time Auntie Shrew r-r-r-r-r-rolls her R's.

Take a drink every time Cynthia says "Timmy's sick!"

I could go on. Not only was I laying in bed making up drinking games that no one besides me would ever want to play, I started thinking about what a great blog post it would make.

Clearly I am scraping the bottom of the barrel for post ideas.

Blog Secret

2008-11-18T08:00:00.003-05:00

Thanks so much to Nilsa at SoMi for hosting Blog Secret! It was very cathartic and I hope we can do it again. So without further ado, I bring you an anonymous post from one of over 75 bloggers.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear You,
I miss you. I considered taking a semester off before changing
schools because of you.
You're leaving for South America and there is a very
good chance that you will never talk to me again.
We can both lie and say
that we'll keep in touch, but neither of us has enough of what the other lacks
to keep things going on.

I'm realizing more and more how perfect we
are for each other. We are alike enough that I don't fear
anything with you,
and you fit perfectly in my arms. I've never slept as well as that first night
next to you.
And I've never had such a long walk as the one from your room
to the train station that day.

I bring your walls down. And you help me
fortify myself. It works. It works like really nothing else I've ever
felt.
I'm not going to say it's love, because for the first time I understand what
love is about. It's not about
love at first sight. It's about seeing
potential. Enough potential to take all of the risks that would arise.

I
guess what I'm trying to say is: I'd wait two long South American years for you.

Lauren wins BIG!!

2008-11-17T11:36:00.005-05:00

My sister went on a gambling cruise this weekend. This is the email she sent me this morning when I asked how it went:

Hey sarah...we did go gambling and it was a terrible time...who would of thunk I'd get sick..darn motion sickness...i took 2 Dramamine but I still threw up..twice!! And lost 20 bucks! And then when we were getting off the boat it started torrentially raining on us..so I had to ride back from s.c soaking wet..and I wanted to just take my shirt off to let it dry, but thought it might me inappropriate since it was me, A, her brother and their mom..but I should of just did it..cause now I think I'm dying of pneumonia

Ooh, details please!

i was sitting at the slot machine, we had just hit international waters so we could finally start gambling and I told A that I was going to barf..i said "it's coming" and she said..well let me get u a bag...(a barf bag)...it seemed like an eternity before she came back, enough time for me to throw up 3 times in my mouth and have to swallow it back down...when she finally came strolling back up with the relief bag, I was pretty much done...but I had some spit I could pack the bag with. We then decided to move to the other side of the ship. I sat in the stool for about maybe 30 more minutes..when this old lady came and sat next to me..then I threw up by her...it didn't seem to faze her because she stayed and played some more..much to my disappointment..i wanted her to leave me be...when she finally moved I threw my 2nd and last barf bag away. At this time the swaying of the boat was making my eyes real heavy so I laid my head on my arms up on the front of the slot machines. Much to my amazement I fell asleep sitting in a backless stool swaying with the 3 ft swells of the ocean. I didn't wake up until an old black man sat next to me and woke me up. He then apologized for doing so, and I thought in my head...wtf? There are a million other open slots...but then I just went back to sleep. The boat finally turned around and we were going with the waves, so I felt slightly better. I moved over by A and her mom at the electronic poker seats and laid out there.

And her description of the ride home? Priceless.

Ya..5 hours on that boat...but after I threw up 2 times...i just laid on the slot machines and went to sleep. And what's really funny is I was trying to look cute on the trip because I have a secret crush on A's brother...but if u didn't know already...vomit=not cute. I had to learn the hard way...

Don't we all.

I've been pretty good this year

2008-11-14T08:57:00.005-05:00

What I really want for Christmas this year is a real, big girl camera. I can occasionally get some decent pictures with my little Nikon point-and-shoot if I don't have to use the flash, and nobody is moving, and my subject is less than 7 feet away from me, and a unicorn is looking over my right shoulder...

I'd love to get some pictures that look less like my 5 year old niece took them and more like this.

For Daniellie

2008-11-14T08:54:00.002-05:00

Sorry this is about a week and a half late, but you know how it is...

I want to see Hulk Hogan beat up Danny Bonaduce

2008-11-13T08:42:00.006-05:00

I think my blog is going to join Maxie's and go renegade. I'm participating in NaNoWriMo and the 2500 words a day that are going into my crap novel are sucking all of the life out of my blog. I can't seem to get it together enough to write a coherent, let alone mildly entertaining post.

A few thoughts I've had which, given a little time or effort on my part, could have blossomed into full-fledged posts:

Hulk Hogan.
When I was younger I was a serious Hulk-a-maniac. My mom wouldn't let me get the WWF magazines, but my cousin Michael who lived down the street did. My sister Lauren and I poured over those magazines and begged our dad to teach us wrestling moves. Fast forward to the present day. I may or may not have watched every single episode of Hogan Knows Best. I strong armed my boyfriend into letting me watch American Gladiators at his house every Monday night. Now Hulk has a new reality show on CMT, Hulk Hogan's Celebrity Championship Wrestling. Danny Bonaduce gives me nightmares, but I still tune in on Saturday nights, if I can stay up until 10.

Netflix is messing with my mind.
I currently have 42 movies in my Netflix queue. Why? Because I'll go through periods in which I'll add a ton of movies that Netflix recommends which I've never heard of. When these movies arrive 4 weeks later, I get all amped up for a pizza and movie night. Unfortunately, I open my little red envelopes to find I've got MirrorMask and Elling waiting for me. Two good movies, don't get me wrong, but not exactly beer-and-pizza fare. On a Friday night, I'm not really in the mode to watch a Norweigan film with subtitles about a neurotic mama's boy and his simple-minded, sex obsessed roommate. Sounded good a month ago when I was bored at work, though.

Orange Soda.
I'm addicted to the stuff. Sure, who doesn't enjoy a Sunkist every now and then, but I'm going through it like gang busters and I'm not sure why.

Kath and Kim.
Is anyone else watching this show besides my friends and I? I love Molly Shannon and I want the show to be a success, but it kind of sucks.

There once was a puppy named Garp

2008-11-12T08:07:00.013-05:00

Once upon a time, I fostered a Great Dane puppy. Long story short, a backyard breeder's most recent litter had resulted in 2 deaf puppies, one male and one female, both of which had been returned after she had attempted to sell several times, and she was getting ready to take them to the pound. I agreed to go and take a look at the puppies, thinking I would maybe bring home the female as a trial companion for Ernie while I found her a forever home. Instead, I came home with Garp: When I arrived at the breeder's home, I was escorted down to the basement that had been converted into a dog room. Right away, Garp, then 'Tank,' ran up to me and started tugging on my scarf and running between my legs. I was smitten. On the ride home, he laid in the passenger seat of my tiny Honda with his head in my lap. I renamed him 'Garp' after one of my favorite John Irving novels. When we got home, Ernie immediately took Garp under his wing as a pit bull in training.

Garp was only 4 months old, but Ernie could easily walk underneath him, and his paws were as big as my hands. When I took him to the vet the next day, he weighed in at 85 pounds. I scheduled his neuter immediately, knowing that my vet charged for anesthesia by the pound and Garp wasn't getting any smaller.

I met an awesome trainer when I took Garp to the groomer (he was absolutely filthy, but already way to big for me to wrestle into my miniscule bathtub). She had never worked with a deaf dog before, but had trained dogs using hand signals and offered to work with Garp and I for free in exchange for the experience. She was also affiliated with the doggie day care I took Ernie to and offered me a discounted rate whenever I wanted to leave the boys there. Like most deaf dogs, Garp was a velcro dog and was already really good at looking to me for cues, so we were able to teach him 'sit' and 'lay down' pretty quickly.

'Stay' was a challenge, because he didn't like to be much more than an arm's length away from either me or Ernie. He took to the halter lead really well and was soon walking politely on a leash. Garp loved Ernie and the two of them would wrestle for hours. I later found small puncture wounds around Ernie's neck where he had let Garp drag him across the living room.

Living with a deaf dog had its challenges and rewards. You cannot be a lazy dog owner with a deaf puppy; no calling out "Hey, get out of the garbage!" I had to physically pull Garp's head out of the garbage when he started digging around in the trash. I was afraid to let him off of the leash anywhere because unless he was looking right at me, there wasn't much I could do to get his attention. My stepdad helped me build a vibrating collar for him out of a remote control car motor, which helped a little bit, but wasn't strong enough to wake him out of a sleep. Letting him out of his kennel was always a trip, because he missed all the audio clues that I was home, like car crunching up the gravel driveway or my keys in the lock. He'd usually be asleep, and I'd open up the kennel and reach in a goose him. He's wake up and immediately start crying with excitement. Perhaps a little cruel, but very entertaining.

Garp didn't usually wake up during the night; he didn't hear the squirrels scampering over the roof or the cats fighting outside that usually woke Ernie up. He'd stretch out in a great white lump at the bottom of the bed and sleep until I woke him in the morning. One night, I woke up to sounds coming from the kitchen. Bleary eyed, I looked down at the foot of the bed. Garp appeard to be passed out as usual. Ernie was asleep on the pillow next to me. I could still hear the sounds coming from the kitchen. I lay in bed, listening. The sounds continued.

Up until that point, I'd harbored a secret fear that, in the event of an intruder, I'd be frozen solid by my fear and be unable to move. This night, however, I got up and grabbed the closest thing I had to a weapon--a knitting needle. Waking Ernie up, I walked down the hall and turned the corner into the kitchen. My heart was pounding and I was absolutely certain I'd see a masked man rooting around my house. As I turned the corner and peeked into the kitchen, however, I saw Garp with his head in the sink, licking the dirty dishes from dinner. What I thought was Garp sleeping at the foot of the bed was actually my down comforter I'd kicked off in a fit of restlessness.

My plan had always been to keep Garp until a friend, S, graduated seminary and moved into his own house. S had flown up to Michigan (where I lived at the time) and had met and fallen in love with Garp. It was the perfect situation, I thought. S would get an awesome dog, Garp would get an awesome home, and I could still see Garp and keep tabs on him. Unfortunately, S was offered the opportunity to go to South Africa for a year and wasn't able to take Garp. I was devastated. I knew I couldn't keep him forever, but it was going to be hard to find a home for Garp that I'd feel comfortable leaving him in.

I put out feelers at my vet's office, the groomer's, the doggie day care...nothing. The lady at the doggie day care offered to board him for me, but I couldn't imagine leaving him over night at the kennel night after night. Garp was a people dog and needed to go someplace where he could get all the attention he needed.

I finally chanced upon a Craig's list ad. A young gay couple was looking for a dog; they had just bought a house and were particularly interested in a deaf dog, because one of the guys, Z, was deaf. I exchanged a couple of emails with Z and agreed to meet him at his house with Garp. I met Z and his partner at their cute little brick two story house. They had already installed a 6 ft. privacy fence in preparation for a dog. Garp behaved beautifully, and I was able to show the guys the hand signals for all of his tricks, which had expanded to include 'off of the couch,' 'get over here now,' and 'move out of my way.' We agreed that I'd bring Garp back that Saturday for a trial weekend.

I bawled my eyes out all the way home. This monster of a lap dog had grown on me. I walked he and Ernie down to the Dairy Queen for one last vanilla cone. Snuggled in my bed with him one last time. Saturday morning came. I collected all of his favorite toys, his halter and leash, and a bunch of treats. I loaded Garp into the car and drove him to Z's. They were so excited about Garp; they showed me the bed they'd gotted and all the new toys they hoped he'd like. Trying not to make a scene, I told them to feel free to rename him; it didn't much matter what you called him because he couldn't hear you anyway. I showed them again how to fit the halter lead. I gave Garp a final hug and walked quickly out of the gate. I looked back, but he didn't. He was busy picking through the new toys he was being offered.

Z sent me an email that Sunday afternoon to let me know they were really excited about having Garp and had agreed to keep him. He thanked me for giving Garp a chance and for giving him a good start. That was 2 years ago, and Z still sends me updates and pictures of Garp, now 'Prince.' He looks happy and healthy, and is absolutely doted on.

It was a fluke, he says

2008-11-10T08:50:00.004-05:00

Ok, first up is some bloggy business. If you, like me, have a less-than-private blog and would like to post something absolutely anonymously, Nilsa at SoMi is organizing an anonymous blog swap. By last count there were 60 bloggers participating, and I know I'm looking forward to it. Publish date is the 18th, I think, so there is still time to join.

Now, on to the real news. I finally beat Steve at Scrabble. I attribute it to the power of positive thinking. He's beaten me twice before, but this Sunday I finally got my first win.

**Warning to all you northerners currently experiencing cold/wet/icy/snowy weather. Graphic descriptions of mild North Carolina autumn to follow.**

I'm not really a competitive person by nature. I played one sport in high school, softball, and even then I either played in the outfield or sat the bench. Board games, however, are my jam. Pictionary is my favorite, but I've been known to play a mean game of Taboo, Trivial Pursuit, or Cranium. When Steve challenged me to a game of Scrabble a couple of months ago, I thought I was going to impress him with my mad vocabulary skills. What actually happened was that he blew me out of the water with 10-point "Q's" and his domination of the "Triple Word Score" spaces.

I tried to dismiss this first loss as a fluke, but during a rematch he spanked me again. I had the lead going into the second half, but he shut me down with an 11th hour word blitz. He is convinced I under-estimated him, but in reality, I over-estimated myself. I sadly resigned myself to a future devoid of Scrabble wins.

Until...
Scene: Sunday, around 11:00 am. Rather than watch yet another episode of "Snapped" (my new obsession), I challenge Steve to a Scrabble rematch. It's about 65 degrees and sunny, so we headed outside and squared off across the Scrabble board in dueling wheelchairs, the dogs napping at our feet.

"This must be what it's like in a retirement home," Steve mused.

Stop trying to distract me. Game on.

I came out strong with "EXCUSE" for 20 points. He answered with "ROOKIE." The battle raged on, until Steve challenged my "AB" for a triple word score. Vindicated by the On-line Scrabble Dictionary, I challenged his "OZ" and eeked out a 10 point win. IN YOUR FACE, Steve.

At least until next time.

I am a pariah (and not in a good way)

2008-11-07T08:41:00.011-05:00

Screw you, Monkey Plague of the Eye. I was trapped in my house with no visitors and no cable, with only the dogs for company. Hemo fled the scene when I started blaming her for my affliction, and only returned for meals. I did, however, watch some interesting movies. If you come down with Monkey Plague of the Eye, I recommend adding the following to your Netflix queue to help you survive while society shuns you:

Striking Distance

Not something I would have ever picked, but it was recommended to me by a friend. Pretty much your typical Bruce Willis action movie. I like SJP, I think she's beautiful, but every time I see her I think about the Family Guy episode where Peter says her face looks like a foot. I'm not sure what that means, but I can kind of see it.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers rate it: 7 (out of 10)

Little Big Man

This is one of my favorite books, and I didn't know there was a movie made of it until yesterday. Is it weird to say that Dustin Hoffman was kind of attractive when he was younger? Because by the end of the movie I had a crush on him. Faye Dunaway is in this movie and is supposed to be this beautiful woman, but all I see is Joan Crawford. Watch the movie, but seriously, read the book. Little Big Man is like Forrest Gump, but with Indians.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers rate it: 6

Envy

I've seen this movie in the "4 for $20" bin at Wal-Mart like 50 times, but I never picked it up. Mistake. This movie is way funny, and Christopher Walken as J-Man the barfly is hilarious. This movie is worth watching, if only for Jack Black's hair-do. I want a shiny white horse named Corky, too.

Side note: I would totally buy VaPOOrize. Heck, I'd even buy a can for Steve's neighbors.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers rate it: 7.5

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

I love this movie. It makes me cry every time. I love watching the arc of Clementine and Joel's relationship in reverse. I hate her gross hair, though. And I hate that he sleeps on a pull-out couch. Now I really want to take a train to Montauk and walk along the beach in the snow. Oh, and Elijah Wood plays yet another creepy character that you really just want to punch.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers rate it: 9

American History X

I put this in my Netflix queue at Steve's suggestion, and it arrived just in time for my Quarantine Movie Marathon. I've been an Ed Norton fan ever since Death to Smoochy, and he does not disappoint in this movie. There are some pretty disturbing scenes, including the obligatory prison shower rape scene and a "curb stomping." **shudder** Fairuza Balk, the girl with the coolest name ever (in my mind I call her Vercua Salt, but that is besides the point) sports a punk Hitler haircut.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers rate it: 8.5

Monkey Plague?

2008-11-05T07:28:00.003-05:00

Am I going to have to stop reading Crissy's blog? Because I have come down with the Monkey Plague of the Eye, internet friends. I'm so grossed out by this that I can't even comment on the election results, other than to say I am proud, excited, relieved, and humbled. I'll be away from my desk at work for a couple days, which is where I do most of my blogging, so talk amongst yourselves and I'll be back soon to give you the run down.

Here's a little Dexter porn to tide you over.

What a slut.

Thank you, Danny Tanner

2008-11-04T08:02:00.006-05:00

I'm sure everyone knows it's Election Day. Get out and vote, cast a provisional ballot if you have to, just do it! Plus, you can collect some serious goodies just for fulfilling your civic duties. Krispie Kreme is giving away free donuts, Ben & Jerry's is giving away free scoops of ice cream (between 5 and 8pm), and Starbucks is giving away free tall coffees. So go vote, and get some free stuff, too!

_______________________________________________

I was thinking last night about how much I've learned from "Full House." Not a month goes by that I don't thank Uncle Jesse for helping me remember that "Congratulations" is spelled with a 't' rather than a 'd.' In one episode, Joey is pitching his idea for a Ranger Joe tv show, and Jesse made him a cake with "CONGRATS JOEY" written on it to celebrate his success, then covers up some letters to demonstrate how the cake could easily function as a sympathy cake ("RATS JOEY"). It's not like I decorate cakes for a living, but you'd be surprised how often I'm called upon to offer someone congratulations for an accomplishment, be it 1,000th blog post or a coworker's retirement.

Remember the episode where Stephanie is entering the school spelling bee? Danny helps her remember how to spell 'success' by teaching her the pneumonic, "double the c, double the s, and you will have 'success'." Got it!

Speaking of Stephanie, how about when she got tired of her dance troupe and totally messed up their routine to Boyz II Men's "Motown Philly" on purpose so she'd get kicked out? Not cool, Steph. Not cool at all. Especially with that sweet-ass costume. Move over, Sparkle Motion. Stephanie Tanner is kickin' it just for you.

Would I ever wear pleated pants and a vest to my first day of junior high? No way. I learned from D.J.'s mistakes. I don't want to wear the same outfit as my English teacher and end up eating my lunch in a phone booth (A phone booth? Really? Did anyone's school cafeteria have a phone booth?).

Other things I learned from Full House? It is ok to:

Ask your Canadian college buddy to move in with you and help raise your three daughters after your wife dies, and expect that friend to live in an alcove off of the living room.
Live in your brother-in-law's attic with your new wife and twin boys.
Get your family lost on what you believe to be a deserted island, because eventually you will meet up with the Beach Boys and have an awesome family vacation.

Potatoes are cool, until the toppings fall off

2008-11-03T08:24:00.012-05:00

I hope everyone had a kick-ass Halloween, because I sure did. I took SO's suggestion and went as a baked potato. My costume really stressed me out because I really didn't start on it until the Monday before Halloween, and I was still putting it together at 7:00pm Halloween night. But I think it came out all right:

...until people started pulling off my bacon bits and eating them.

We started out the night at a friend's house, where he served us "springbok" shots (1 part Creme de Menthe and 1 part Amarula) which looked disgusting but tasted like delicious mint chocolate chip ice cream.
There, Steve got beat up by Boxxy Brown:

There were a lot of awesome costumes downtown.

That's all for now; more to come. Happy Monday!

Mixed Bag

2008-10-31T15:49:00.009-04:00

For your Friday enjoyment, a couple of random office pictures.

Dexter, stop distracting me. Some of us have to work for a living.
**bonus points if you can spot the office plant I stubbornly refuse to water**

Coworker: Hey, Sarah, do we have any copier paper?
Me: None at all.

Enjoy the weekend!

The Great Pumpkin

2008-10-30T12:15:00.015-04:00

The Wandering Writer is having a contest which is really just an excuse to brag about Ernie, and so I am entering. Not that I need an excuse, however...

I don't dress Ernie up too much, which is probably why he is so tolerant of it when I do decide to do it. I had high hopes for this costume; Ernie and I would sit on the porch, bowl full of candy in my lap, and hand out candy to all the kiddies that came by. I wasn't thinking clearly, because it was my first Halloween in Michigan. In case you are wondering, it is cold in Michigan on October 31st. And by cold, I mean holy-smokes-I-think-I-have-frostbite cold.

I lasted about 20 minutes on the porch and got no trick-or-treaters. Apparently, in the village I lived in, everyone trick-or-treats in one area a couple of streets down that really gets into Halloween. We are talking a whole block of houses decked out with a pirate ship complete with skeleton crew, ghostly organ players straight out of Disneyland's The Haunted Mansion, and a pretty impressive electric chair. I ended up giving all my candy to a trio of older boys who wandered past the house on their way home from the "cool" street. Bummer. But Ernie did look pretty cute...

Hey look! I'm all dressed up!

So...when do I get my candy?

I think it'll look better on you *wink*

See? But seriously, about that candy...

I do have a pretty cute picture of Dexter and Ernie all dressed up for Halloween together, taken when Ernie was just a puppy. But it's at home. So maybe tomorrow?

I just hope I spell my name right

2008-10-30T09:44:00.002-04:00

Office dynamics are weird. I mean, you're spending upwards of 40 hours a week with people who are not your family or even your friends. You end up finding out things about your co-workers that you really wish you hadn't, like that Nancy in Finance used to have a drug dependency, or Bob in Human Resources cheated on his wife 16 years ago and just found out he has a daughter from the affair. But the worst thing about the semi-intimate relationships you develop at work are the cards that are circulated for various occasions. Birthdays are not too bad, I guess. A quick "haha, you old!" and you're done, right? Boss' day; again, not so bad. "Thanks for not firing me," has seemed to go over pretty well in the past.

The occasion that leaves me chewing my pen, at a loss for something, ANYTHING to say, is when a coworkers' family member dies. In the year that I've been here, two of my office mates have lost a parent. Granted, my supervisor's father was 96 and it came as no surprise, but I was still at a loss. My boss always comes up with something like "Keep him alive in your heart," or "You are a testament to the person he was," both of which make my lame, "So sorry for your loss," look even lamer by comparison, even if I am lucky enough to be the first of my similarly tongue-tied coworkers to scrawl that trite sentiment on our group card. Even worse is when a card circulates for someone in our building who I couldn't pick out of a lineup for a million dollars. How bad is it to write, "You and your family are in my thoughts," when I know I most likely won't think of them at all after I put the card in my office neighbor's inbox for their signature?

The task of getting a memorial plant fell to me when an office mate's mother died after a protracted illness. The office consensus was that we wanted to get him a tree that he and his daughters could plant in memory of their grandmother. Unfortunately, it was January, and every tree I found was dormant and looked like an ugly dead stick stuck in a pot. "Sorry your mom died; here's a twisted twig we stuck in a pretty pot that may or may not bloom in a couple of months." After reporting the dismal selection of potted trees at three local nurseries and 2 home improvement stores, my coworkers urged me to get the "best looking" tree I could find. For $45. *Sigh* I ended up getting the saddest little magnolia tree you can imagine, and putting a big white bow on it before putting it in his office. I cringed when I showed it to the office, and the silence and raised eyebrows that it was met with confirmed my belief that this was not the memorial any of us had envisioned.

Today I signed another sympathy card for a cowoker I have yet to exchange a single "hello" with. At this point, I'm not even sure what I wrote. I'm pretty sure I didn't write "Happy Birthday," but other than that, who knows?

Sometimes good things happen

2008-10-29T11:17:00.006-04:00

Yesterday was much better than the day before. At least, there weren't any cops waiting for me when I got home and the house was still locked up. Sweet.

Also, Julie and I picked up our back-up Halloween costumes:

We laughed at each other for about 20 minutes in Joann Fabrics.

Anyway, the BF mentioned that I should blog sometimes about the good experiences I have with the dogs out in public. I tried to explain that it would be boring to read about how I walked the dogs and someone didn't tell me how viscious my dogs are. However, in the interest of fairness, I'm going to give it a try. Here goes...

Saturday we were sitting outside at the Dock Street Oyster Bar. This place is very Dex and Ernie friendly and our waitress always brings out a bucket of water for the dogs. Two guys were sitting at the table next to us, and one of them came over to pet the dogs and mentioned that his pit bull had been hit by a car and died 2 weeks ago. He told us they were out in the country and his dog had followed a car 2 miles out to the highway and had gotten run over. We offered our condolences, and then the guy asked the dogs' names. He was a little taken aback when we told him; his dog's name was Dexter, too. What a coincidence.
Then we went to The Barbary Coast for some beers and some pool. As soon as we walked in, Dex and Ernie were fawned over by some drunk ladies at the bar. Dex made a bee-line for the treats behind the bar, and Ernie was busy giving everyone high fives. Several people commented to me how well behaved the dogs are, and that they wish they could bring their dogs out in public. Later on, a guy brought in his pit bull with the biggest head I have ever seen on a dog in my entire life. He (the dog, not the owner) and Dex had a blast sniffing butts and guarding the front door together.

So there you have it. A completely positive post. A little bit boring, too, but I'm too busy stressing about my Halloween costume and the upcoming NaNoWriMo to come up with much more.

I didn't check the crawl space

2008-10-28T12:26:00.004-04:00

Yesterday was not a good day, internet friends. I came home from work to find 3 police officers on my porch and the front door wide open. My first thought was that something had happened to the dogs. As I raced up the porch steps, Dex came waddling out of the front door. Before they could get a word out, I asked the officers if there was another dog here. They told me they had put Ernie in the spare room because they weren't sure how friendly he was.

The police officers said that they had received a call from a neighbor that my front door was wide open. When they arrived, both dogs were in the house, and nothing seemed amiss (other than the cushions being off the couch, but the dogs do that all the time). Either I didn't close the door all the way when I left in the morning, or someone came in to the house and the dogs scared him off. I'm 99% sure I locked the lock on the doorknob, but I know I didn't deadbolt it. The officers walked through the house with me, checking behind every door, in every closet, and under the beds. Once I was satisfied nobody was there and nothing was missing, I packed up the dogs and went to a friend's house.

During the whole ordeal, I was mainly upset that something could have happened to the dogs. I'm surprised they both stayed in the house (which is not to say they didn't go roaming and come back, but it was a little chilly yesterday). They could have been hurt--shot or kicked by some desperate drug addict. I thought back to the guy who cut my grass a couple of weeks ago. What if they had tried to attack the police officers as they came in the house? I wouldn't blame them if they did, but others might not have been so understanding.

It's got me really shaken up today; I didn't sleep very well last night and I'm dragging ass today at work. I just want to curl up with a mug of hot chocolate in the middle of an Ernie and Dexter sandwich. I'm proud of the boys for being so good and staying close to home, but I feel like I've let them down by not keeping them safe.

The one where I touch chicken guts

2008-10-27T08:11:00.008-04:00

Internet, meet my dinner. Dinner, say hello:

As I was trolling the ghetto Food Lion yesterday for dinner ideas, I came across whole young chickens on sale. Bingo! A few potatoes and some green beans later, I had a meal plan. Unfortunately for the chicken, he had yet a few more indignities to suffer before retiring to the cleansing retreat of a 350 degree oven.

First, since I bought him at 2:30 and I was determined to eat dinner by 8:00, I quick-thawed him in some warm water until I could pry his legs apart and pull out the neck/gizzards/other disgusting organs I cannot name from his body cavity. Guts disposed of, I mounted him on an upright chicken roaster and rubbed him down with olive oil, black pepper, sea salt, and cayenne pepper, paying special attention to his underarms.

At the suggestion of a neighbor, I decided to give the beer can method of chicken roasting a shot. I opened a beer, poked some holes in the can, poured about half of it out, and sat the chicken down on the beer can. The chicken looked kind of uncomfortable.

We gave him a last drink, then retired him to the oven for 2 hours.

He was delicious.

Now, for a gratuitous picture of the boys.

A couple days late and a few dollars short (pit bull edition)

2008-10-24T08:22:00.005-04:00

So I missed out on Wednesday's Vlog Day, because I am behind the times and also I suck a little bit. So to make up for it, I'm posting some videos of the dogs wrestling. First up, we've got the dogs wrestling in the hole in the middle of the yard. Please be advised, the dogs may sound like they are killing each other, but I promise you they are just playing.

Next, Ernie gets the zoomies and Dexter does a face plant (but shakes it off like a truly Bad Mutha Fudrucker).

And finally, Dexter gets the wiggles.

Enjoy your weekend!

Random Joke

2008-10-23T08:29:00.005-04:00

I was driving home from work yesterday and I passed a parked car with "Want to hear a joke? Call KL5-1234" painted on the rear window. Well, it wasn't a KL5 number, but I don't want to blow up some stranger's phone with internet spizam (ok, that word sounded cooler in my head than it looks typed. Oh well.). Also, I've wanted to use the "KL5" prefix ever since I read my first Baby Sitter's Club book. How cool was Claudia? Check out What Claudia Wore.

I digress.

I'm sitting in traffic with nothing better to do than pick my nose and pretend no one can see me (did I mention my radio was stolen from my car? for the third time? almost a year ago? and I still haven't replaced it?), so I called. Seeing how close we are to the election, I thought it'd be something along the lines of "Want to hear a joke? Have you hear the one about how Barack Obama has secret makeout parties with anti-American terrorists and serial killers?" Either way, I figured it would be something to blog about.

*ring ring*

Mysterious Jokester: Hello?
Me: Um, I was hoping to hear a joke.
Mysterious Jokester: What kind of pants does Super Mario wear?
Me: I have no idea.
Mysterious Jokester: denimdenimdenim

Get it?

Okay, maybe you had to be there, but I just said 'thank you' and laughed all the way home. Or maybe it works better if you say it out loud. That joke is almost as good as my favorite joke.

Q: What kind of bees make milk?
A: BOOBIES!

Man, it gets me every time.

You may be right. I may be crazy.

2008-10-22T09:54:00.006-04:00

The small women's college I attended my freshman year bragged about the extensive screening and matching process the recruitment officers go through to determine which two incoming freshmen would be best suited for each other as roommates. I was pumped, although apparently I didn't convey my true personality, because my roommate and I were no match at all and had nothing in common other than a shared major (Biology, which she promptly changed to Business after our first dissection lab). I should have suspected my roomie wasn't going to be a barrel of laughs when she contacted me shortly before move-in day to coordinate which twin extra long comforter sets we were going to purchase, "so we'll match."

"Jenny" was a huge dork who went home every weekend and had a small desktop zen garden. I blasted Ben Harper, dyed my hair purple, and snuck beer into my mini fridge that my friends at nearby Wake Forest had provided for me. I raked the sand in her zen garden into what I hoped were disruptive patterns in her absence and blamed it on our neighbor, who we both couldn't stand but was always stopping by. It was during this time I developed the habit of talking out loud to inanimate objects, as I had the room to myself 98% of the time.

Oh, Papa John's Pizza with ham and pineapple, you are so delicious.

Screw you, printer! Don't you know I have a paper due in 45 minutes?!?

When I left Salem College and moved to Wilmington, waiting tables didn't help. I cursed my pens for exploding in my apron, gave the tea urns the finger when they overflowed, and begged my car to start for me in the morning. Mop bucket! How about not tipping over and drenching my shoes for once?

All bets were off, however when I got Hemo. She is the talking-est cat I know. She'll have a full on conversation.

Me: Hey Hemo, did you have a good day?

Hemo: No.

Me: How about some dinner?

Hemo: Now!

Me: There you go.

Hemo: Fuck you.

Ok then.

My cookie tastes like a pen

2008-10-21T09:57:00.003-04:00

Inspired by Ben's work-related post, here's a peek into my office:

A coworker's response to a remark about his habit of clipping his nails at his desk:
"What? At least you know I'm well groomed."
What I know is to avoid your office during your grooming sessions, lest I get a nail clipping in my eye.
From the mail room lady:
"Would you like some cheese and jalapeno grits?"
Yes. A thousand times, yes.
A local restaurant dropped off "goody bags" with coupons and pens to drum up some lunch business. I high-five a coworker about our good fortune--coupons and a pen!?! I find out later that each of the bags also had a cookie in them, but the ~~fat bitch~~ switchboard operator took them all out and ate them over the next 3 days. Now I think my pen sucks.
The boss is on vacation this week, and I had to show him how to set up his automatic email "away" message. For the fourth time.

I will not be watering his plants in his absence.

Mondays. barf

2008-10-20T09:32:00.009-04:00

Mondays are a real bummer. Especially when you have a kick ass weekend that included Beer Fest (where much delicious beer was consumed), and a Sunday night dinner of hot italian sausages.

It was chilly this morning (for North Carolina, anyway; I think it was 51 degrees) so that made it harder than usual to get out of the shower. I was finding things to do so I could justify not getting out.

Hey, haven't shaved my legs in a while, and I might as well scrub the grout while I'm in here.

I mentally rifled through my closets trying to decide what I was going to wear to work, trying to delay until the last second my departure from the warm humidity of the bathroom. Of course, the shirt I had picked out doesn't exist and the pants I want to wear were dirty. Oh well. But then my iron wouldn't get hot. I guess I'll be sitting at my desk a lot today, hoping that no one notices the wrinkled mess that I'm calling pants.

A good thing about Mondays is that one of the ladies in the next department always bakes up a storm on the weekend and brings in a smorgasbord of banana bread, oatmeal cookies, and spice cake. A bad thing about this is that she puts out a donation cup, with the proceeds supposedly going to cure cancer. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about curing cancer, but I never know how much is appropriate to leave. 50 cents a cookie? I've got a couple of dollars in pennies that have collected in my desk drawer; should I dump all of that in? It is money, after all, but I'm having a hard time spending it. No one wants to be that girl, counting out pennies at Food Lion for an AriZona Rx Herbal Tonic and some King's Hawai'ian Sweet Bread. I usually end up putting a couple of dollars in the cup by the end of the week, unless I've been especially gluttonous and then I make myself put in a fiver.

Oh, and did I mention Beer Fest? It was the site of my very first Hula Hoop FAIL.

But I didn't spill any beer. Win.

Pile drived? drove? driven?

2008-10-17T10:59:00.009-04:00

Either way, it happened to me last night. Hulk Hogan would be proud.

Sorry; it's Friday and that's all I've got. Enjoy the weekend!

Crabs!

2008-10-16T10:54:00.005-04:00

Last night the neighbors had a 3 hour screaming match. From what I could gather as I sat on my front porch with a glass of wine a book ~~and pretended to read~~, He's been talking to some other girl who means nothing to him, and She's been talking to several guys who may or may not be her cousins. I'll let you know how it ends. Hemo is on the shit list for peeing on the dogs' leashes, but look what I found in my backyard:

A crab spider! Well, Steve calls them crab spiders but I call them pirate spiders because to me it looks like they have a skull painted on their bellies. I've been wanting one of my own ever since he pointed a baby one out to me on his porch.

I was a smart kid

2008-10-15T08:08:00.006-04:00

When I was younger, I remember being aware of a big "Don't Drink and Drive" campaign. I couldn't have been more than6 or 7. At the time, my parents were attempting to enforce a "no eating or drinking in the car" rule, so I just thought that this campaign was part of a movement to keep the nation's vehicles from looking "like a fucking dumpster" (in my father's words). It made sense to me; my sisters and I frequently spilled our drinks in the car, and we weren't even driving. My mom, however, had (and still has) a serious Diet Pepsi addiction. You know how some smokers need a cigarette as soon as they wake up? That's how Mom was with Diet Pepsi. The sound of a Diet Pepsi can being popped open in the morning is as natural to me as the smell of coffee brewing. Naturally, there was always a Diet Pepsi at hand in the car as she ferried the four of us around.

My mother drinks and drives all the time! I would think to myself when I saw the PSAs with the stern cops cuffing the guilty parties. She didn't even seem to care, taking a big swig from the can right next to police cars. In my mind, it was only a matter of time before she was caught and arrested. But the thought of separating my mom from her beloved caffeine was too much for my 6 year old brain to handle, so I just prayed that no cops would notice my mom's brazen consumption. She didn't spill very often, I reasoned, so maybe they'd let her off easy.

In another flash of childhood brilliance, I announced to my mother one day that I knew why the handicapped parking spaces were so close to store entrances. I'd been eyeballing these spaces for months, knowing there must be a good reason for these spaces to sit empty while our caravan of strollers, diaper bags, and crying toddlers trudged past.

"So handicapped people can get into the stores quickly without everyone in the parking lot staring at them," I proudly informed her. Hey, it made sense to me. I knew that I personally had a hard time looking away from someone with an obvious handicap, and my younger sisters certainly were no better. I don't know what I thought happened when the handicapped patrons actually got in the store; would people be so engrossed in deciding between Scooby Doo- or Flintstones-shaped Kraft Macaroni and Cheese that they wouldn't notice someone speeding past in a motorized wheelchair?

"Well, that may be part of it, but it's probably because people who are handicapped typically have a harder time getting around in the first place," my mom patiently explained.

Oh. I guess that makes sense, too.

What Bad Mutha Fudruckers do (pt. 1)

2008-10-14T08:00:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure how, but the BF has acquired 2 wheelchairs. I'm pretty sure he hasn't been mugging cripples, but I'm not asking any questions. All I know is, on warm afternoons ~~after we've had a couple of beers~~ while we wait for the coals to get hot, we bust out the wheelchairs.

Sometimes (ok, one time) we attempted to have a chariot race with Ernie supplying the horsepower; unfortunately Ernie was more interested in licking faces than pulling wheelchairs, so I ended up running in front of the wheelchair getting Ernie to chase me while Steve sat and enjoyed the wind whipping through his hair at 0.5 mph.

I think the kids playing basketball down the street enjoyed the show.

Most of the time, however, we just sit around and take turns trying to do wheelies on the "good" wheelchair. So there is a lot of this:

And this:

And finally this...

I would help you up, but first let me snap a few pictures.

...which is why we only play Wheelchair Wheelies on the grass.

Ernie hates World Hunger

2008-10-13T08:53:00.004-04:00

The Mutha Fudruckers were a philanthropic group this weekend. On Friday night I went to a cancer benefit, which, was actually to raise money to cure cancer. It was held at El Scorpion, a local bar usually known as the only place in Wilmington to hear live Mexican bands on a weekly basis. $1 from every $3 glass of wine they sold went to the cause, so against my better judgement I drank white wine all night, which I promptly blamed for my poor performance at the pool table. Also, there was what I am sure was a vomit stain on the felt, which also played a part in my defeat. When no one claimed one of the prizes in the raffle, I thought it was hilarious to call across the room, "Julie! You won!" She had not won.

On Sunday I participated in the Crop Walk, an event to raise awareness of and money for world hunger. Ernie and I were standing with our team, waiting for the walk to start, when a lady walked past us with her dog. Her dog, dressed as an angel, stopped to sniff noses with Ernie. The lady looked down, pulled her dog away, and looked at me.

"That dog looks mean," she said, and walked away. She didn't say it in a nice, "Oh, your dog looks tough but is obviously a sweetheart," kind of way. She said it in a "I don't think your dog should even be alive, let alone allowed out in public," kind of way. My immediate reaction was to tell her that she looked like a bitch, but I thought that it wouldn't be in keeping with the spirit of the day, so I held my tongue. I know I should have a thicker skin about this stuff by now, but it pisses me off every time.

So I steamed about it for the 5 miles of the walk, and by the time we got to the finish I had made my peace with it. A piece of pizza and a Chik-fil-a coupon later, and I had all but forgotten the incident. I turned to my friend and inquired whether or not it would be funny if I ran through the "Stop World Hunger" banner like it was the finish line.

"Yeah," he said. "About as funny as when you told Julie she won the raffle the other night."

My bad.

Dexter hearts Tyra Banks

2008-10-10T07:48:00.005-04:00

All those Saturday mornings watching ANTM marathons have not been wasted on the dogs. They've learned to make subtle, but crucial, differences in their poses during photo shoots to give me a wide variety of shots. My friend's dog, Desi...not so much. She's sticking with what she knows.

For Dex, it's all in the face.

Happy Friday!

I heart Sharpies (NSFW)

2008-10-09T09:11:00.009-04:00

Sharpie tattoos are awesome (awesome to give, I mean; I don't want someone drawing all over me with a permanent marker). Once I caught my niece drawing on herself with a Crayola marker. She had some scribbles on her face, so I helped her out and gave her a sweet curly mustache and some chest hair, and called her Pierre for the rest of the day.

So when the BF lets me give him Sharpie tattoos, it is like the best gift he could give me. I get to use a Sharpie and draw on someone? Count me in.

Me: "What do you want?"

Him: "A naked chick sitting on top of the globe with a recycling symbol on it."

Me: "Okay..."

**This is the NSFW portion of the post**

Too funny. I was very sad the next day when he had sweated it off.

Click here for the uncensored picture.

**Edited to add:

I forgot! I gave Ernie a Sharpie tattoo, too:

Opportunity FAIL

2008-10-08T08:27:00.011-04:00

I have a smart mouth and a very dry sense of humor, the combination of which can get me into trouble. I have a really hard time passing up opportunities for a good story, even it the story isn't ~~at all~~ entirely true. Is that skull and crossbones tattoo on my dog real? Of course! We got them at the same time; I wanted it to be a bonding experience. If an opportunity to tell an awesome story falls in my lap, I won't let something like the truth keep me from spinning a yarn the likes of which you've never seen. Truth shmuth. The people want to be entertained!

And so I give you: Story Opportunity FAIL #1

I mentioned that we went to a wedding this weekend. Seated at our table was a girl who had a scarf wrapped around her wrist. I'm not sure how the conversation started (I was too busy eyeing the martini glass full of ranch dressing that was in front of me and daring it to fall onto my salad), but the BF managed to get her to take off the scarf and show us the pins that were in her wrist.

Holy smokes! I thought.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did that happen?" I asked.

"I fell," she said, and shrugged.

You fell? There has got to be more to the story than that. I mean, the girl had like 6 pins and three bars sticking out of her wrist. Even if all you did was fall while running in the rain in flip-flops, make something up! You're at a table full of strangers who are all drinking. Say a circus elephant stomped on your arm while you were saving conjoined twin babies from certain death. Evil Knieval ran over your arm*...you sustained an injury in the semi-finals of an arm wrestling championship...SOMETHING! Not only is a wedding pretty much a carte blanche for making up an alternate personal history, when you've got a robo-arm for a prop you should be making the most of it.

Opportunity FAIL #2 happened the other day when we were seated at a restaurant bar waiting for a table. The bartender asked me what I'd like to drink, and I told him to bring me his most delicious beer.

"Um, we've got Miller Lite draft pints for $2."

FAIL.

I said your most delicious beer, sir. Don't get me wrong, I love a Miller Lite, and I appreciate you looking out for my wallet, but if it's your most delicious beer than you need to have a word with your bar manager. At least offer me your house brew. Or a Chimay. Upsell! Earn that tip!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
*I know he's dead, but that makes the story even better. Zombie Evil Knieval!

:(

2008-10-07T08:38:00.007-04:00

Sorry about the lack of a Monday post, internet friends. We went to a wedding Sunday night that was an hour and half away, and this Bad Mutha Fudrucker didn't feel like going to work Monday morning. Instead, I did some cleaning up around the house. By cleaning up, I mean that I drank Miller Lite and ate dry Crispix out of the box while I waited for the current load of laundry to be dry. Also I watched the special features on my Lord of the Rings Special DVDs and laughed along with my good friends Dominic Monoghan and Billy Boyd as we recounted that time Orlando Bloom fell out of his canoe. Hilarious!

I am a dork.

I took some sweet pictures this weekend, too. I got my hands on a sharpie and gave Steve a "I Heart Recycling" tattoo. Ernie got a skull and crossbones tattoo. I took pictures of wheelchair wheelies and wedding dances that I'd love to share with you, but sadly my camera cord is sitting on Steve's desk and not in my purse. So no pictures for you. Ok, maybe one.

With help like this, it's no wonder I never get any laundry done.

Award-winning blogger saves family of 4, solves economic crisis

2008-10-02T09:25:00.007-04:00

So maybe I didn't save anyone, but I did win an award! Thanks to The Wandering Writer...and her dog I am in receipt of my very first blog award. Because I ~~am a rule follower~~ do not want my award revoked, I am awarding it to the following 7 ~~people who read my blog~~ bloggers:

Danielle at Yachting and Yapping
Dingo at As I Was Saying
Nilsa at SoMi
Maxie at i hate so much
c.watson at Things and Stuff
Kate at New Life in South Dakota
Charlotte at Pup Speak

Thanks for entertaining me during my day at work, guys. Pass it along to 7 other bloggers, if you are so inclined.

Pirates pay for drinks with dubloons

2008-10-01T08:00:00.006-04:00

It is the first day of October and I am getting way excited about Halloween. I usually make my costume each year, and in the past I've been:

a member of Sparkle Motion (okay, I didn't make this one)

Frodo Baggins

a mermaid

Roxy of the Misfits

One year I went as a pirate and paid for all my drinks with Sacagawea dollar coins that I called "dubloons." I thought it was hilarious and the bartenders thought it was annoying. This year I think I'm going to go all "Eagle vs. Shark" and be a Great White Shark. Even though I hate sharks and I am even afraid of them in the pool. Seriously. When I jump off of the high dive I haul ass to the ladder because I am just SURE someone has opened the underwater gate and let the sharks out. It's going to be an awesome costume, though.

Speaking of sharks and pools and being crazy, I have this reoccurring nightmare about sharks and pools. In my dream, my mom drags me and my sisters to see Jaws, who has been captured and is being kept in the pool by our house. Well, she really only drags me because my sisters are all about it. I beg and beg and try to convince her that it is a BAD IDEA, but we go anyway. One by one, my sisters keep leaning over the side of the pool and falling in, and I have to keep jumping in and saving them. Over and Over. All Night. Whenever I have this dream I wake up exhausted and mad at my mom. Come on, Mom! I warned you. Sharks+kids=Worst Idea Ever. Jeez.

I also frequently have a dream where my mom makes me live under the stairs a la the Dursleys and Harry Potter, and won't let me have any of the brownies she just made. Which is weird, because my mom would never deny me brownies. She is a very nice lady.

I think I'll go to JoAnn Fabrics this weekend and get some supplies.

Spiders are my friends

2008-09-30T08:00:00.005-04:00

Remember a while ago when I told you about Charlotte? Well, I finally had to break her web and take the garbage out, and then I didn't see her anymore. Even though she didn't ever do anything really cool like write me a note or catch a mockingbird in her web, I was kind of sad to see her go.

Yesterday, though, I saw these two hanging out in the trees in the backyard:

I named them Nellie and Joy after Charlotte's daughters that stayed with Wilbur. If I find a third, I'll name her Aranea. If I find anymore, I'm just going to hand out numbers until their personalities emerge. I'm going to make more of an effort with these two; having two big ol' spiders as my friends might be kind of fun.

I can't wait!

Arr, pirate bars!

2008-09-29T08:38:00.013-04:00

Let me preface this post by saying I don't only take the dogs to bars. We go other places, too. Like the beach, the lake, charity dog walks, etc. But it's much easier to take pictures of your dogs when they are 6 feet away from you being cute while you enjoy a beer than it is to take a picture of them while you are swimming away from them and trying not to drown. Also the dogs are like my kids, and while it's frowned upon to bring your kids to the bar, people seem to really enjoy having Bad Mutha Fudruckers at the bar.

Dex made it back safe and sound on Friday. He had a great weekend with his mom, road tripping and hanging out with Other Ernie, Danielle's mom's chihuahua. To celebrate his return, we took the boys to The Barbary Coast, a little hole in the wall bar downtown that is Dex and Ernie friendly. It's definately an interesting place; here are some examples of some of the art work:

Dex was totally in his element:

He even got "behind the bar" privledges:

Now all I've got to do is teach him to grab me a beer while he's back there.

Ernie doesn't have as much fun, because of the Loud Noises coming from the pool tables and the fact that I was constantly moving. He likes his special people to Stay Put where he can keep an eye on them so they Don't Escape.

But then no one had fun because Dex and Ernie got grounded for barking at dogs outside of the bar:

..and I couldn't play pool because I had to keep a close eye on these Mutha Fudruckers. So I took this picture:

Then it was time to go:

I got home and had pasta with meat sauce and dripped pasta sauce all over my shirt. I am a messy eater.

Today can suck it

2008-09-26T08:00:00.005-04:00

Barf. Today sucks. It started off rough because I had way too much fun at Tina's house last night, drinking margaritas, eating delicious turkey meatballs, and losing at Scrabble. So I was already planning on hating this morning. When the alarm went off it was still way dark, and Ernie was hogging all the blankets. The lightbulb in my room has been burnt out for a couple days now, but it's too high for me to reach (even on a chair!) and the BF has ignored several requests to bring his ladder over, so my room dark.

By some happy accident I managed to find some stain- and wrinkle-free work-appropriate clothes and a whole pair of underwear. My morning's looking up! I thought. So what if I almost barfed in the shower? Onward and upward! I poured myself some Cranberry Splash Sierra Mist and headed out the door. Hey, the car started! Sweet!

But then shit headed downhill. I sat at just about every stop light between my house and work. I really had to blow my nose and couldn't find a tissue. I forgot to put my check card back in my wallet so no delicious Sausage McMuffin for me. Oh, it gets worse.
You know that funky liquid that collects in your cup holder if you don't clean it out like, ever? Well, I dripped some of that on my pants as I was getting out of the car. That shit stinks. Literally. It smells bad. And now it's on me. I tried to scrub it out in the bathroom, but I just spread the stain around. I'm still smelling the smell now. Yuck. A co-worker brought doughnuts in, and everyone ate the good ones while I was trying to scrub the funk out of my pants. The only two left were a jelly-filled (barf) and a half of a dry non-glazed cake one. Who eats half a doughnut and leaves it in the box?

It doesn't matter anyway; the funk from my pants is turning my stomach.

*Note: I know my day could be much worse. I have a job, a home, friends, family, and awesome pets. But still; a girl's allowed to complain once in a while, right?

I make out like a bandit

2008-09-25T09:58:00.001-04:00

When I was little, we had this series of books and tapes geared towards teaching kids morals. Each installment focused on some lesson; responsibility, generosity, honesty, blah blah blah. I don't even know how we got it. I do remember it came with popsicle stick puppets that my sisters and I would use to put on ridiculous plays (which usually offered little by way of storyline and definitely didn't seek to extol any virtue). One particular scene from the "truthfulness" installment sticks with me. A girl walks past a bakery and decides to get a doughnut. A strawberry frosted one (my favorite). She buys one, and realizes that the clerk had given her two much change; now she has enough money to buy another doughnut, but decides to do the right thing and gives the extra change back. Whatever. That story sucks.

Which brings me to the kind of similar but mostly different experience I had the other night at the gas station. I had paid for my gas at the pump already, but went in to get some Gatorade (1 @ $2.09) and Red Bull (3/$5). Don't judge me. Anyway, when my total came to $4.37, I motioned to my purchases:

Me:"For all this?"
Clerk: "Yeah. Powerades are on sale 2/$2. But you got Gatorade."
Me (puzzled): "Um, awesome? And you've got the 3 Red Bulls?"
Clerk: "Uh-huh. They are 3/$5."
Me (laughs nervously): "This is a pretty sweet deal."
Clerk: "Yeah, well..." (looks bored)

I pay with a $10 bill. He gives me $5 and change back.

Clerk: "Hey, that is a pretty sweet deal."
Me (laughs nervously again): "Yeah, that's what I've been trying to tell you."
Clerk (shrugs): "Have a nice night."

I totally felt like I was stealing. I felt bad, but then I remembered that I had just paid $60+ to fill up my Honda Accord, so I felt not so bad. But then I stayed up until 2am on a weeknight, drinking Red Bull and vodka and watching "I Love the 80s" for what must have been the billionth time. In the morning I felt bad again. I should have gotten a doughnut.

Dexter-shaped hole

2008-09-24T08:00:00.005-04:00

Ernie and mailman are not friends. Yesterday, just as I was walking out of the door to take Ernie for a walk, the mailman was walking up the steps. Ernie started barking. Not his "Hey, I'm way excited to see you" bark, either. He busted out his "Holy smokes some shit's about to go down" bark. I pulled him back inside while my bills and SuperSaver flyer were delivered. I don't want to piss the mailman off even more. He's already screwing with my Netflix. I'll never get to watch the third "The Future is Wild" disc if I get on his badside.

Dexter is in South Carolina this week with his mom, who is on a break from her job as a stewardess on a yacht named Wanderbird. I know he's having a blast, but the house is a little empty without him. The days are longer for Ernie, since he has to spend the work day at home alone, drinking rum and barking at the mailman. Hemo prefers to spend the day sunbathing on the porch.

My bad. Just don't get run over.

On the upside, he's got more free time for finding and eating underwear.

To give myself a little Dex fix, and to prove that Ernie is not the sole target of my abuse, here are some pictures of Dex (who views the camera as a torture device) with his moose.

Hahaha, there is a moose on my back!

I grow weary of this game.

Um, he fell off. Not my fault.

You have compromised my dignity. Now give me a treat.

P.S. Please excuse the filthy floors. I do mop quite a bit, but when we get rain for a couple days in a row, the floors suffer.

Pit bulls are made of sugar

2008-09-23T08:00:00.002-04:00

Ernie and Dex got baths this Friday. I know...it's about as much fun as it sounds. First we had fun time, aka Naked Dust Wrestlemania 2008:

'Ah! You're biting my neck!'

'Ah! You're biting my neck!'

'Ah! You're biting my side!'

Ernie got a nice warm bath in the bathtub:

But I had to chase Dex around the backyard with a cookie before he would submit to a cold-water hose-down:

P.S. Vote for Crissy

2008-09-22T11:58:00.004-04:00

Could you use a new camera and Photoshop software? I know I could. Maybe I could graduate from Paint and Microsoft Publisher. See Stoogepie for The Rules.

Pimpslap Religion

2008-09-22T08:24:00.007-04:00

I saw this driving home from Virginia last night. I'm not sure what else to say about it, other than it shared storefront space in a strip mall with a hair salon called Hairicanes. Across the street is a business called "Granny's Day Care," but I haven't figured out if it's Granny who is doing the babysitting, or if Granny is the one getting her diaper changed. I kind of want to know, but I kind of don't. This block of Market Street is pretty much most of North Carolina in a nutshell. Go 'CANES!

This weekend I was in Richmond with my aunts, sisters, and mom. Every year my Aunt Lisa's company reserves King's Dominion for a Family Appreciation Day, and we get together to enjoy funnel cakes, pretzels, fried oreos (don't ask), frozen lemonade, and the awesomely short lines for the rides. I feel like I'm in that episode of Full House where they go to DisneyWorld and Michelle is named "Princess for the Day" or some crap, and they get front of the line privileges. Seriously, the day rocked. Except no Uncle Jesse. Boo.
It wasn't until I was halfway into the 5 hour drive home that I started thinking about the names of the coasters I'd been enjoying all day. Just to throw a couple out there for you, we have:

The Dominator
The Anaconda
The Shocker

Ok, the last one was technically the "Shock Wave," but still, I'm sensing a pattern. I think King's Dominion wants to violate me. But as long as they keep the fried oreos coming, I guess I'm ok with it.

I'll take Potent Potables for $1000

2008-09-19T08:00:00.013-04:00

I. Love. Trivia.

I love watching Jeopardy, playing Trivial Pursuit, and ~~coming close to but never quite~~ finishing crossword puzzles. Bar trivia is the best, though. After a long night of waiting tables, I used to love nothing more than taking the tips I had wrestled from my redneck tables and blowing it on tall Miller Lites and fried bar food at the Buffalo Wild Wings across the street, playing round after round of trivia while my co-workers spent all night coming up with screen names like PNIS and URMOMSUX. I’m not a competitive person by nature, but there is something about seeing WINNER: MTHRFDRKR displayed for all to see on the tiny corner TV dedicated to trivia in a smoky sports bar. When I moved Michigan for a year and had no friends, I made my mom go with me to Buffalo Wild Wings on the regular for the single purpose of beating her at NTS Trivia. In your FACE, Mom! Plus, the chili and cheese Buffalo Chips are pretty good.

Lately I’ve been getting into team trivia, which is a whole ‘nother ball game. A local beach bar hosts (in conjunction with a radio station) Wednesday night trivia night, complete with prizes and a raffle. It’s mostly regulars that show up; 2 groups of older, weathered beach locals, a younger, yuppie-ish team, and then my team. My team boasts the youngest mean age of any of the regular teams, and also the loosest roster of players (basically anyone who can show up at 7:00 on a Wednesday night). We have yet to win it all, (none of us were born when the Salvation Army was founded by William and Catherine Booth in London in 1865, as I suspect some members of opposing teams were), but we’ve had a respectable showing. We may not know which European city hosted the first organized autorace in 1887 (Paris--our guess: Stuttgart), but we do know which rock legend Trudie Styler is married to, and what year Nelson Mandela was freed from prison.

Any trivia team has some variation on the following cast of characters:

The Organizer: Can be counted on to send out a mass text message reminding everyone of the date and time of trivia. The Organizer arrives early, reserves a table, and has a couple of pitchers sweating on the table by the time the rest of the team trickles in. Usually comes prepared with a pen, either behind his ear or in her purse.
The Scribe: Invariably has the worst handwriting on the team. Not known to contribute much by way of answers, the Scribe faithfully writes down the first answer that comes out of anyone’s mouth. The Scribe isn’t usually a great speller, and will unabashedly inquire as to the number of l’s in “Mandela.”

The Mouth: Calls out any “funny” answer that pops into his head, to the perceived amusement of the entire bar. Examples may include:

Additional minor characters:
The Sports/Music/History Know-it-All: An annoyingly necessary evil.
The Namer: Who wouldn’t want to be a part of Team Turd Ferguson?
The Dumb Girlfriend: Unnecessary. ‘Nuf said.

Trouble

2008-09-17T14:19:00.000-04:00

Blogger's "save" feature isn't working for me today, so here's some pictures of me torturing Ernie.

Oh, hi. Just ripping up my toy, nothing to see here.

You want this toy? Why?

Oh.

This sucks.

The one where I give a homeless drug addict $20

2008-09-17T10:01:00.008-04:00

I was sweeping the leaves/dirt/broken Old English bottles off of the sidewalk in front of my house yesterday when I was approached by a skinny, bald, black man.

Him: Looks like you could use some help.

Me: (laughs) I could use some help getting my grass cut.

I could use some help convincing the neighborhood lay-abouts that my front lawn is not a glass recycling bin.

Him: Well, ma'am, I'm staying at a shelter right now, but I've done some landscaping and I could cut your grass for you.

I agree to pay him $20 to cut my front and back yard with a lawnmower he'll borrow from a friend. Thunder is rumbling in the distance and it's sprinkling, so I tell him to come back tomorrow around 5:30 to cut the grass.

Him: I-I, uh, I really need that $20 today, ma'am. I have to make my rent or he's going to put me out.

Rent? Are they charging rent at homeless shelters now? And who's 'he'?

I tell the guy it's up to him if he wants to mow in the rain, and he walks down the street to get the lawn mower.

He shows up 15 minutes later with a gas-powered weed eater, which he cannot get to stay cranked long enough to cut more than 2 or 3 blades of grass. After about 45 minutes of cursing at and tinkering with the weed eater (with Ernie and I watching from the window), he admits defeat and knocks on my door.

Him: I don't know what's wrong with that thing. But I'm almost half-way done (he's not even 1/5 of the way done with the front yard), so if you pay me that $20 now I'll come back tomorrow and do the rest.

Me: Um, I can pay you $5 for what you've done, sir, but I don't feel comfortable paying you the rest until the work is done.

Him: (getting visibly anxious) Look, I'll give you my wallet and leave the weed eater here. I promise I'll be back tomorrow; I really need that $20.

Please, God, let that weed eater not be stolen.

Me: Sir, I'm sorry. I don't want your wallet, and I can't let you leave the weed eater here. If you can come back tomorrow to cut the grass, I'll be happy to pay you the rest of the money.

He leaves, and I start to feel bad. I mean, I not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but $20 on any given day is not going to make or break me. I'm thinking maybe I should have just given him the money and hoped for some good karma.

Cut to: a half hour later, Ernie is freaking out and I hear a lawnmower cranking out front. I look out the window and Mr. I-Need-That-Money-Right-Now has procured a lawnmower from who-knows-where and is cutting the grass with a shit-eating grin on his face. He sees me at the window, waves, points to the lawn mower, and gives me a thumbs up. Sweet. But now I'm faced with a dilemma. I have a 20, a 10, and four 1 dollar bills, minus the $5 I gave to him earlier. I think about trying to get the $5 back from him and giving him the $20 bill, but I know I'd probably just end up giving him all $25. A thorough search of the house reveals nary a stray dollar bill. I have to break into my precious stash of vending machine quarters to come up with the last dollar of the $15 I owe him. Apologizing for the change as I hand the money to him, I am secretly mourning the loss of those four quarters.

A Tragety, indeed

2008-09-15T14:07:00.005-04:00

I actually wasn't sure I was going to get this picture; I saw it on my way home on Wednesday, and didn't stop until Friday, when I pulled into the parking lot and snapped a couple of pictures. I had a brief twinge of guilt, like maybe I should call the 87 year old church secretary and let her know about the misspell. My urge to be a good samaritan left me when I realized that I may never get this chance again in the age of spell check. Sure, I live in North Carolina, where the teachers are discouraged from teaching children anything other than what is necessary to pass annual "end-of-grade" tests. You'd think this kind of thing would happen all the time. It doesn't. Or if it does, I'm too busy writing down litter bugs' license plate numbers so I can report them to the DOT to notice.

I had several thoughts on my drive home from the Oak Grove Presbyterian Church. My first thought was that maybe it was all a clever ploy to get more butts in the pews. I mean, they got me half-way there--I was in the parking lot, albeit briefly. I also had a procrastinator's jealousy of the preacher's time-management skills. Wednesday morning and he already had Sunday's sermon written? I tip my hat to you, sir. I ran out of toilet paper last Thursday and I've been wiping my butt with paper towels ever since because I keep putting off running down to the neighborhood Food Lion.

Though I could probably win a 4th grade spelling bee. You, Rev. Tragety? Maybe not.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers: The Rules (pt. I)

2008-09-15T10:43:00.015-04:00

Hey look! Ernie's sniffing some flowers:

'Do not take a picture of me sniffing flowers; I am a Bad Mutha Fudrucker. Bad Mutha Fudruckers do not Sniff Flowers.'

'This is what Bad Mutha Fudruckers do. They Rip Shit Up.'

'If you try to tell a Bad Mutha Fudrucker to be gentle with his toys and not Rip Shit Up, a Bad Mutha Fudrucker will Laugh in Your Face.'

'Bad Mutha Fudruckers dig holes in the middle of the yard, even if they are Not Supposed To, because they Don't Care about following the rules.'

'Bad Mutha Fudruckers will lay (lie?) in the shade and refuse to look at you, because they also Don't Care about Looking Good for the Camera.'

Vegetable? Fruit? Pistachio?

2008-09-12T08:45:00.008-04:00

Look what I found in Harris Teeter:

It's very rare you get to witness a mother tomato giving birth, so I moved her onto some bags of pistachios to get a better look. I was tempted to buy her, but she would have just sat on my windowsill where I would have looked at her every day and said "weird" until she turned into moldy tomato mush. Then I would have to throw her away. So I saved myself the 89 cents (and her the indignity) and just took a picture.

I hope she found a good home. I'm sure she's delicious.

Anyway, that's pretty much it. Enjoy the weekend!

**Edited to add:
Does anyone know when/how to tell if olive oil has gone bad? Several cases of sealed bottles of olive oil have found it's way into the BF's kitchen, expiration date August 2008. Is it safe for consumption? Or am I throwing a major slip'n'slide party? Both?

Soldiers in the KISS Army

2008-09-11T08:52:00.007-04:00

If Dexter were to join an online dating site, this would be his profile pic:

Come on! Look at that tongue. It's obscene. He looks like he's auditioning for the K-9 KISS Tribute Band.

Ernie makes a decent Paul Stanley, don't you think?

I'm embarassed at how long I spent making these pictures. There is no way The Boss can believe I'm working right now.

Making friends with the Laundry Monster

2008-09-10T09:20:00.011-04:00

The Mutha Fudruckers will be playing host to a guest for an extended period of time soon, so in the interest of hospitality, I thought I'd do a little tidying up of the lair.

Bathroom: I don't know if I've even looked at the baseboards in my closet-sized bathroom since I moved in. I consider myself lucky if I can get into the shower without knocking my deoderant into the toilet. I talked to my sister as I scrubbed the shower, bathtub, toilet, sink, walls, fixtures, curtain--you name it, I bleached and/or ammonia-ed it. At the end of our 45 minute conversation, I was laughing hysterically about my niece being the smartest kid on the short bus. I think I was high.

Kitchen: Dishes cleaned? Counters wiped? Floor swept? This is usually where I stop. Not tonight. I moved and swept behind the stove and refrigerator. Speaking of the fridge, I cleaned it out. It now contains a) a box of baking soda; b) one 1/2 gallon of milk. I guess I'll be grocery shopping in the very near future. Unfortunately the kitchen also serves as the wet bar, so my Sailor Jerry consumption reached dangerous levels. Fortunately, there were no harsh chemicals or sharp knives to negotiate. I survived.

Next on the Hit List o' Cleanliness: The Laundry Monster.

The Laundry Monster lives in the guest room. He is generally ignored until I run out of underwear or work clothes. FYI: I'm not above wearing certain articles several times before washing (it's amazing what a little Febreeze and a steam iron can do), so he can lay dormant for several weeks. Hemo loves the Laundry Monster; when he is finally disturbed, cat hair and dander fly from the nests and tunnels she's constructed.

I hate doing laundry; I have to bribe myself to do it. Last night's bribe consisted of Sailor Jerry's and ginger ale, set to the tune of the 80's at 8:00 and the 90's at 9:00 (compliments of 102.7 WGNI). Between 8:00pm and 11:48pm, I had washed 4 loads of laundry, dried 3, put away 2, and called it a night with the last one still unfolded on the couch. We watched "Me, You, and Everyone We Know," which is a pretty decent movie; I would definately recommend adding it to your Netflix queue.

Still life: Ernie with Laundry Monster (clean)

Riders on the Storm

2008-09-09T09:02:00.012-04:00

I made a comic...

2008-09-08T16:44:00.005-04:00

...but Blogger is being a bitch and isn't letting me upload it. Maybe tomorrow...I'll ~~revel in the killing of~~ sacrifice a mockingbird to the Blogger gods and see if that makes a difference.

I heart three day weekends

2008-09-02T15:37:00.004-04:00

Things I did that were fun this weekend:

Saw an 80's cover band
Ate chicken wings*
Sang 4 or 5 (I lost count) songs at karaoke in a single night**
Watched Dane Cook's "Viscious Circle" 2 or 3 million (I lost count) times
Ate mini burgers*
Had a frozen lemonade
Ate hot dogs and bratwursts*
Took Ernie to the beach
Bought 2 bathing suits on sale
Lounged at the pool
Drank beer (with and without the aid of a beer bong)
Played with a puppy***
Drank rum punch

Things I did that were not so fun this weekend:

Paid rent
Bought a bra
Saw a naked man at the beach****
Took Ernie to the beach*****

*I was involved in the actual cooking of none of these food items. The extent of my participation in all meals this weekend extended only to the purchase of ingredients and the supervision of their preparation. From watching the grilling of meats with a beer in my hand to watching my sausage egg and cheese omelet scramble with a mimosa in my hand, I at no time dirtied my hands with the business of turning raw ingredients into edible meals.

**Songs for the night began with Li'l Kim & 50 cent's "Magic Stick" and ended with "Possum Kingdom" by the Toadies. I may or may not have warmed up with 2 hours of Rock Band beforehand. I'd put my money on the former.

***Not mine. Mason The Doberman Puppy belongs to Darcie.

****On the semi-deserted side of an island in the Intracoastal Waterway, while walking Ernie and Mason The Puppy (pictures to come), I saw a man unabashedly enjoying the Labor Day sunshine au naturel. Gross is right. Even grosser? Steve egged me into looking to see if balls were visible. I did, and thankfully, they were not. My shame/revulsion is not lessened.

*****Ernie loves the beach. But he hates the water. He also hates watching me ~~swim~~ drown from the shore, so he swims out to me, legs flailing, in a desperate attempt to end our lives simultaneously.
"If you're going, I'm going too! Now hold still while I scratch and try to drown you while others watch from the safety of the dry, dry sand."

Dog Friendly=Good

2008-08-29T11:01:00.007-04:00

Walking the dogs around downtown yesterday, it occured to me that I could very happily live in Wilmington for the rest of my life. For a semi-small town, it's got a lot to offer--the coast, plenty to see for history buffs, lively downtown scene, and it is defiantely dog friendly. The boys and I have a couple of favorite dog friendly bars, one of which is a hookah bar not too far from my house. Last night we went to see the fire dancers, and the boys did what they do best. Ernie went from patron to patron, a big ol' smile on his face, enthusiastically licking any offered hands, feet, faces, etc. Dexter is a bit more calm, and spent most of his time inside enjoying the air conditioning...

...or hanging out by himself, pretending he doesn't know either the crazy lady snapping pictures or the face-raping dog.

We've Missed You, too

2008-08-28T10:19:00.018-04:00

I am a ~~lazy~~ bad blogger. Life's been a little stressful lately, and I've become seperated (yet again) from my camera. But not to fear--the joyous reunion occured at around 8:45 last night. So, a quick update on the boys. Dexter has become re-attached to his crate--he loves it! Even when Ernie pulls the blankets out in an attempt to uncover hidden nyla bones.

(*Note: I know he looks like he's being punished, but that's because I'm torturing him with the camera, not because of the crate)

In a fit of stress-induced creativity, I made the boys new beds:

(Again, they look extremely put-out, but it's due to the camera.)

The boys also got baths (no pictures) and new collars:
And the feral cat family? They're doing alright, too.

Also, I saw Journey/Heart/Cheap Trick in concert:

...and saw a van with a vagina painted on the back. Enjoy!

For Daniellie

2008-08-07T10:01:00.004-04:00

The temperature's been soaring this week, but the dogs still need their walks. We travel the 9 blocks from my house to downtown, the destination being a artisan well located along the riverfront where the boys can get a drink and cool off. Along the way, I get comments of all sorts. I guess it's not everyday you see a girl walking 150 lbs. of dog. Unless you live in my neighborhood. Then you are treated to the Bad Mutha Fudruckin' Parade 7 days a week.

Some people tell me I've got beautiful dogs. I like these people. Some people remark that I've got some really well trained dogs. I feel bad for these people. I mean the boys do walk politely on a leash and sit at crosswalks, but that's pretty basic obedience. I get lots of offers to breed the dogs, or requests for puppies, but since they are both male and fixed that's usually a short conversation. I try to avoid those people.

Lots of people ask me if they bite. I used to laugh and say no, but now I tell people they only bite on command. Then I laugh. I was sitting outside of a coffee shop with the dogs one day, and a guy asked my favorite question. "No," I said, "they don't bite." The boys were laying on the sidewalk under the table, quietly watching the pedestrian traffic.

"They look like biters," the man said and walked away. You look like a child molester and your breath stinks, I thought. But I didn't say it, because I didn't think the mother of the little girl petting Dexter would have appreciated a child molester joke. His breath did really smell like he'd been eating a shit sandwich, though. On second thought, maybe the boys would have bit him. They enjoy a nice turd now and then, and they don't like to share with assholes.

The point of this post was not to wax poetic about the joys of shit sandwiches, however, but to share this picture of Dexter cooling off in the aforementioned well.

I hate birds

2008-08-05T08:43:00.009-04:00

Birds and I have never seen eye to eye. Mainly because I am seriously afraid that they will peck my eyes out. I don't get people who keep them as pets--I prefer my companion animals a little less delicate and a lot more cuddly. Plus, you can totally trick birds into thinking it's nighttime by putting a blanket over their cage. Ernie's not the smartest cookie in box, but even he's not so easily fooled. My aunts have a bird they've trained to poop on command, which I admit is kind of a cool trick, but I have two dogs that have trained themselves to poop in the farthest corner of the yard so I don't have to constantly be on the lookout for doggie landmines. I think that makes dogs the winner.

I've taken to hiding from the ~~mocking~~ devil birds that live in the hedge next to my house. They've claimed the front porch by pooping all over the railing, and I refuse to sit out there to be dive-bombed by those relentless sons of bitches. Also I refuse to poop all over the railing. Hemo hasn't given in to their tyrannical ways. She continues to bask in the sunshine and keep an eye on the comings and goings of the neighbors. I tried to get an action shot of the dive-bombing, but I flinched everytime and only got blurry pictures.

She even tried to encourage me to reclaim the porch, but I'm a chicken. I sat on the guest bed with Ernie and watched the mocking birds crap all over the porch from behind the safety of the window.

I heart cuddly animals

2008-07-31T09:53:00.011-04:00

Yesterday, when I went to put my trash bin on the curb, I saw this:

I did not put my trash bin on the curb. Wikipedia says it's a female Writing Spider and is not harmful to humans. While she may not be physically harmful, she is not much of a writer. She hasn't been spinning any cool messages for me into her web ("What's up, Ninja!?" or "The neighbor kids stole your Netflix again"), nor is she putting a noticeable dent in the mosquito population. This causes me me mental anguish, aka harm. Too bad Wikipedia has blocked my work IP address from editing entries.

As I was dealing with the disappointment that I was not starring in my own version of "Charlotte's Web," I noticed some kittens playing in the hedge by the trash bin. So I brought out some Hemo food for them.

They ate, and I felt good. But then I felt bad, because they wouldn't let me pet them. I got to thinking that maybe Hemo could give those alley kittens some motherly advice, like how important it is to clean your vagina ~~in front of company during dinner~~ thoroughly, or how to trick people into feeding you 6 times a day by pretending to be starving. But Hemo was already pissed that I have given away some of her food, so she would probably have only taught them to play tag in the street. And maybe the alley kittens don't even have vaginas.

I do/do not condone animal torture (check one)

2008-07-30T07:58:00.007-04:00

In theory, I am against animal torture. In practice, I cannot resist making Dexter wait until I give him the ok to eat. It was an especially long wait this morning, as I was trying to get a picture.

Not visible: The pool of drool collecting between Dex's paws, which I will slip in on my way out of the house.

Barely visible: The thread of drool hanging from Dex's jowls.

Embarassingly visible: The dirty couch corner peeking from underneath the slipcover, and the bookcase shelf I put in upside down because I was drunk during its construction.

I see crazy people

2008-07-29T09:04:00.010-04:00

Crazy people are scary. Ever since I was a kid, I've been afraid that some crazy person is out to get me. Not because of something I've done, or said, or am, but because they are crazy. Branches scratching at the window? A desperate psychopath was slowly etching his way into my bedroom with the fingernail he'd sharpened just for that purpose. Unexplained glint in my American Girls Doll's eye? A surveillance camera set up by a maniac so he'd know when I'm asleep.

My bedroom in highschool was over the garage, on the opposite side of the house from the rest of the family. My mom would stand at the bottom of the stairs, turn out the light, and wish me goodnight. I just knew some wacked-out killer was going to echo my mom's "I love you, hon," with his own creepy "I love you, too," as he slid out from underneath my bed and duct taped my mouth.

My paranoia reached its pinnacle with a one-two punch from HBO. I watched a special about BTK, a serial killer in Witchita, Kansas who calmly admitted to murdering numerous women during his trial. In one instance, he stalked a single women in his neighborhood for a period of time, until he felt confident enough to break into her house when she was away from home. He hid in her bedroom closet. When she came home, she had a "male guest" with her; BTK waited hours until the guest left. After she had gone to bed, BTK emerged from the closet, and (according to him) calmly explained to her that he had a "problem" and that she was going to have to do exactly as he instructed her. Then, per his modus operandi, he bound, tortured, and killed her. Oh, and he took some pictures and dumped her body at the chuch where he was a Deacon. At the time, Ernie was going through a book-chewing phase, so I kept him in his crate while I was at work. When I'd get home, I'd check that the basement door was still locked and then let Ernie out of his kennel. We canvassed each room, under beds, behind the shower curtain, in closets, behind doors, and in cabinets until I was satisfied BTK wasn't there. One horrible day it occured to me that if some psycho were to decide to stalk and kill me, all he'd have to do was sneak in every day for a week or so and give Ernie a treat, thereby becoming a friend in Ernie's eyes. I am my own worst enemy.

A couple of days later I watched "Sin City" and saw my beloved Elijah Wood dismembering and eating hookers. I'm not a prostitute, but who's to say tastes don't change? I stopped wearing my ipod during walks so I could listen for footsteps behind me, or the sound of sliding gravel as Frodo leapt from the shallow pit he'd fashioned to ambush me as I walked by.

But don't worry. My fears don't keep me from functioning in society. One day, while calmly relaying my fears to a friend, he gave me a really strange look.

Me: Don't worry about me. I'm one step ahead of those crazies.

Him: No, I'm not afraid for you. I'm afraid of you.

Come on. I'm not afraid of aluminum foil or chocolate frosting. Crazy people are scary.

Mad Mutha Fudrucker

2008-07-28T11:49:00.012-04:00

I had planned on blogging about how, when I was little, I wanted to have twins (a boy and a girl) and name them "Cowa" and "Bunga" after my favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' catchphrase. You're going to have to wait for that story, because all I can think about it how someone at the Lance Cracker Factory is messing with my head.

Work sucks on Mondays (usually), so I like to bribe myself with treats thoughout the day to keep from strangling myself or others with the vines of the Boss' philodendron. A semi-brief look at my task/treat schedule:

7:30-7:45am: Catch up on my favorite blogs (this is my reward for getting to work).

7:45-8:00am: Take care of all the odds-and-ends work I didn't feel like doing after 4:30 on Friday of last week.

8:00am: Walk to the adjacent department to see what baked goods Susan has brought for this week. Today--some sort of chocolate cake. Try to remember to wipe the crumbs off my face.

8:05am: Answer emails, return telephone calls, pound some numbers into my adding machine, blah blah blah boring stuff.

11:20am: Walk to upstairs to get some Lance Toast Chee Crackers (no, not a typo; I'm looking at the package right now and it is really spelled this way). These are delicious cheddar cracker sandwiches with peanut butter filling. Trust me when I tell you that the blinding neon orange color of the crackers in no way reflects how good these sandwich crackers are. Plus, a package of 6 costs only 40 cents!

But wait, did I say 40 cents? Because today, to my astonishment, my Toast Chee Crackers were clearly labeled 60 cents.

I'm glad no one else was in the 2nd floor break room, because I stood there for a good 2 minutes just staring at the vending machine, wondering what had I done to deserve this. I'm still reeling. To add insult to injury, after ~~wasting~~ spending 60 cents on Toast Chee, I only had 40 cents remaining, which is not enough for a can of Coke. So I had to walk back downstairs and dig a couple of nickels out of my purse. I'm glad no one stopped me to ask how my day was going, because I think I would have said something along the lines of "shitty," which is not really acceptable work place language (at least not at my current workplace; when I waited tables, if you weren't having a shitty day at work that meant you were making lots of money, and that made everyone jealous and hate you). I came close to unloading some expletives on a co-worker who was in the break room when I took a picture of the offending Crackers. But she seemed genuinely sympathetic about the outrageous price hike, so I kept my rage in check. No reason to make an old lady cry, or showcase myself in an unflattering light. Not if it can be helped.

So there you have it. Lance Toast Chee crackers are now an astonishing 60 cents. Also, if I had twins now, I would not name them "Cowa" and "Bunga." Although "Pea," "Bee," and "Jay" are still in the running if I have triplets.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers

I suck, but I'm back!

Who doesn't close the door in public restrooms?

Meet...Curly Sue

None of this would apply if I could grow a decent handlebar moustache

Seriously?

I threaten my dogs with knives

TMI Thursday (and an apology)

This is what I imagine goes on while I'm at work, except probably with more tongue kissing.

TMI Thursday

In which I dream about calling the maintenance man, or Julie Gets a Microwave

Seriously, it's not that hard.

I should be so lucky

You win this time, venison.

Harry Potter sock yarn? Yes, I am serious.

I burned my bangs off with a curling iron. True.

86 Pat Hingle*

It's just like riding a bike, right? Right?!?

6 saltines in 60 seconds, you say?

Wine Eye?!? What happened to Notorious?

Really?

JEI Thursday: RATS...some facts

I totally would (with bonus Delicious Deliciousness)

Sorry, internets, I've been an asshole blogger.

Ladies' Night

TMI Thursday

I am the anti-Rockwell

I am a chubby chaser, and I hate ranch dressing

Is it cliche to say that men are incapable of putting the seat down?

Birds are the devil

Fact or Fiction Wednesday

The one where vampires cause me to break into my own car with a screwdriver and an American flag

And the winner is...

Peace out, Ninjas

Fact or Fiction Tuesday

Who writes checks anymore, anyway?

BlogSecret pt. II

I know it's just a t-shirt and a couple of coozies, but we are in an Economic Crisis!

Deal or No Deal

I'm addicted to losing

My life as a drinking game

Blog Secret

Lauren wins BIG!!

I've been pretty good this year

For Daniellie

I want to see Hulk Hogan beat up Danny Bonaduce

There once was a puppy named Garp

It was a fluke, he says

I am a pariah (and not in a good way)

Monkey Plague?

Thank you, Danny Tanner

Potatoes are cool, until the toppings fall off

Mixed Bag

The Great Pumpkin

I just hope I spell my name right

Sometimes good things happen

I didn't check the crawl space

The one where I touch chicken guts

A couple days late and a few dollars short (pit bull edition)

Random Joke

You may be right. I may be crazy.

My cookie tastes like a pen

Mondays. *barf*

Pile drived? drove? driven?

Crabs!

I was a smart kid

What Bad Mutha Fudruckers do (pt. 1)

Ernie hates World Hunger

Dexter hearts Tyra Banks

I heart Sharpies (NSFW)

Opportunity FAIL

:(

Award-winning blogger saves family of 4, solves economic crisis

Pirates pay for drinks with dubloons

Spiders are my friends

Arr, pirate bars!

Today can suck it

I make out like a bandit

Dexter-shaped hole

Pit bulls are made of sugar

Mondays. barf